


Of Casters and Falls

by Tybolt_Silver



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-19 05:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14229915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tybolt_Silver/pseuds/Tybolt_Silver
Summary: Leopold Lannister is a crippled boy, but as the Heir of Casterly Rock and second in line to the Throne, the ward of Winterfell and one of the most promising minds of the generation he has the potential to change Westeros forever. To make the beasts come to heel, the Lion must bring something new to the Game of Thrones - something only the Dragon Kings had possessed.





	1. Shaking a leg

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Casters and Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/368838) by Tybolt Silver. 



“It’s not fair!” 

A Prince, Leopold Lannister, who was busy drawing plans on parchment, threw his golden head back and grinned as the familiar whine of the youngest Stark daughter thundered into his room and the door slammed behind her. He shut his book and tossed it to the other side of the bed, for, while his love for books and grand ideas was great, his love for the young Stark girl was much greater. 

“And here comes my Little Lady Stark to ruin my peace.” He stretched out like a cat and his gleaming green eyes watched her stomp and rave. As soon as she entered, a fierce wolf pup came running into his chambers. Nymeria pounced onto the Prince’s bed and have him a good lick before settling herself by his side. 

The direwolf found comfort in the lion’s den.

“What happened now? The Septa made you do… could she possibly be so cruel? … cross-stitch!?”

“Ha. Ha.” She tossed her handiwork at him and he caught it in one hand, familiarly. “Hilarious, Prick.”

“I do my best to amuse you, Little Lady Stark.”

“Fuck off.”

“Language!” He reprimanded, but grinned all the same. 

“Can you fix it, jester?”

He observed her work and there was no polite way to put it: it was horrendous. There were knots in the string and the lines of stitching were crooked in every direction. It was chaos. He honestly had no idea how she could butcher something so simple so badly. 

“I assume you had the brains to bring the string and needle, Little Lady Stark.”

“Obviously, I’m not stupid.” She tossed the items to him as well.

“Really?” She gave him a hard look that only made him laugh. “What about the scissors?” Without looking up, he heard her disappointed sigh. She had forgotten. “Lucky for you…”

His knuckles supported his body upwards and he patiently waited for Arya to pass him the two wooden crutches that rested beside his bed. They had been designed by his Uncle Brain and taught to use by his Uncle Brawn, as he called them affectionately. Balancing on them, his bare mangled feet touched the cold, stone floor and he hobbled to the door, like he hobbled everywhere. He made his way across the room where he opened a cupboard’s drawer and took out a small wooden box. Opening it, he pulled out every knitting utensil known to man. 

“… I might have some.” 

She watched him wobble unsurely. He was so very strong. He could have been a great warrior. He could never be, though, because his older brother, Prince Joffrey, had ridden a horse over his legs when he was 7 years old in an ‘accident’. That violent mess forced the king to separate them and send one boy to his only trusted friend, Eddard Stark. The Queen had apparently fought fiercely against sending either, but eventually the damaged Prince volunteered. She was so thankful that it was this brother that came, rather than the older. He was her closest, most loved friend.

He landed quickly back into bed and his botched legs were back on their proper pillows.

Arya huffed, and she dropped herself by his feet. “You know sometimes I think you’re Sansa. You certainly have enough lady things to rival her.” She watched him thread the needle and prick himself at least twice. This was where her fitting nickname for him came from- because he pricked himself so often with a needle – for she did not know its other, more phallic, meaning when she first thought of it when she was five years old.

He lightly glared at her. “If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t insult the man who holds your fate in his hands. Excruciating chores or a stern talking to from your mother, was it this time?” 

“Both, and I wouldn’t be allowed to go outside my room for a week.”

“Ooh, a triple punishment. You must have been driving the Septa up the wall this time. Then pray to the gods I don’t slip and make a single mistake, or this will be the end of Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

Arya rolled her eyes but remained silent, watching the Prick work. He bit threads, pricked his fingers and sucked his own blood, all for her. His brows furrowed and at some point, in their comfortable silence she leaned gently on his calves, mesmerised. He, and his doing the task, was fascinating to watch.

He had luscious, bright golden hair and cool green eyes, like all Lannisters were famed for. There was a harsh royal air about him, a brutal kind of gracefulness. His square jaw and the lines of his face made him look both handsome and older, Arya admitted to herself, though she would suffer torture than confess that to him. The cloaks he wore were Stark wolves, Stark leather and Stark fur. His large bed, which she had often plopped on after an angry fight with Septa or Sansa or Mother or anyone else, was covered in wolf skins and wolf engravings. If it wasn’t for his western roots, you would think he was a Stark. It was strange to think that he was a Prince.

Suddenly, Nymeria jumped off the bed to race against some invisible spirit, in one of those inexplicable moments that animals do. and with her shattered the many needlepoint utensils.

“Nymeria!” Both Leopold and Arya shouted at the pup, but she was too wild to heed their reprimand.

“I’ll get it,” Arya growled at the foolery of her pet and bent down onto the floor to collect the tools most foreign to her.

“Arya…” the cautious, almost afraid, voice wavered.

“What?” She growled. The bloody scissors fell under the bed.

“Come up here for a moment.”

“Why?” She lifted herself off the floor and looked at the place in which she sat, with mortified horror.

There, on the wolf furs, was a humongous blob of blood.

Shocked eyes trailed to the Prince who with a pale face and a quivering finger pointed to the back of her dress. “Arya… I believe you’ve… flowered.”

It was then that she screamed. It was the most piercing, glass shattering sound that he had ever heard. 

“ARYA! Shush!” He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his chest. He leaned on her in order not to fall but his body mass muffled her panic. “Arya listen to me…. Shhh listen to me… here’s what’s going to happen.”

The pressure on his legs became too much and he fell back onto the bed, taking the panicked girl down with him. The jolt in adrenaline shut her up.

“Arya… here’s what will happen… you are going to put on this cloak to hide the stain… then you are going to run to your parent’s chambers and find your mother who will know how to deal with the situation… give you a bath or something argh I don’t know how girls deal with this okay?! Then you are going to calm down and we’ll meet in the Great Hall for some hot goat’s milk and put this entire traumatising affair behind us.” He held her close. “Say ‘I understand, stupid prick’.”

“I understand, stupid prick.”

“There, see? You feel better already.” He let her go, barrel rolled across the bed and reached into his closet to find the crimson Lannister silks that he had hidden away for eight years. “There you go. Remember, up the stairs, two lefts and at the end of the corridor is the Lord’s chamber.”

She sent him one final glare and sped off, gripping his cloak tightly around her shoulders.

When she was gone, Leopold let a relieved sigh escape him while he clutched his heart. That was a moment of horror he never wanted repeated.

He looked at the blood stain on his furs. “Well… never thought I’d be in this situation.”

@)---‘---,---

A lone figure stood on the platform above the Training Courtyard watching boys down below. Robb Stark and Jon Snow were teaching their brother Brandon Stark on how to shoot, one of the finer educations of a lord’s son no matter the order of birth. 

Green eyes watched the younger boy fire arrows, however inaccurately. Leopold was never given that education, nor would he ever. The Heir of the Seven Kingdoms had saw to that.

In a flash of a moment, Robb Stark looked up and saw the cripple on the balcony. Discreetly, he waved his head for Leopold to join them and discreetly, with the wave of her hand, denied that invitation. Any closer proximity would make the bitter bile of jealously so much sourer.

The Lannister hobbled further into the depths of the castle for which he ventured out of his rooms, before being briefly distracted by the unattainable.

“Your Highness!” The stone mason welcomed the boy into his quarry. “So happy that you are here.”

“I do hope that I don’t disturb your work, Tommy.”

“Not at all, Your Highness. Now… let’s get started. As with last week, we discussed the steels, I thought this week we’d get onto melting…” For the next few hours, the humble blacksmith explained to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms how to make swords. 

Every day, for over four hours, the Prince would sit in a different craftsman’s abode and listen to how their trade worked. Amongst blacksmith and the stone mason, the cook and the butcher, the farmer and the baker, the soldier was completely forgotten. 

“I still don’t get why you choose to spend all your free time with the commoners. What are you trying to be Aegon the Unlikely or something?” Robb asked the boy after the lesson with the blacksmith was over and the two boys made their way to a lesson that they shared, one that was the most important part of their education as heirs of great estates – the Lord of Winterfell.

“Someone has been reading a bit of history, I see,” Leopold said as he struggled down the stairs. 

“Not really. I’ve just been listening to you ramble on about it for eight years,” Robb chuckled, as he ran down the steps. “One tends to pick things up when all you talk about is Aegon the Unlikely, Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys the Old King, Maekar I and Daeron the Good and that’s just off the top of my head and only when you’re on the subject of kings. You never shut up.”

“I’m very glad… that I’ve been able to… drill the Heir of Winterfell’s knowledge… of our past kings… I notice you don’t mention many of the go-to kings. No Conquerors or any Young Dragons,” Leopold laughed. “I’d say Maester Luwin and I have done a very good job.”

“You’re not the bloody Grand Maester of the Citadel, Leo.”

“No,” he said, as they finally reached the bottom of the stairs and into the courtyard where horses waited. “But I’m smarter than you, Bobby. Don’t you ever forget it.”

“What took you so long?” Lord Stark was not pleased to wait for the two of them. The Lord Paramount of the North had been saddled for ten minutes.

“His Royal Highness was having trouble descending stairs,” Robb rolled his eyes. “You know Leo, if you’re so smart, why don’t you invent a lift to bring you up and down stairs, so you could be on time for once?”

Instantly, Leopold’s eyes bulged. “By the Seven, Bobby, you’ve just given me an idea.” 

‘Bobby’ looked very unamused. “Oh really? Well, if it’s a good one, then you’ll remember it. In the meantime, do you still remember how to get on one of these things?” Robb patted the neck of a fine horse. 

“Bestial creatures, horses,” Leopold halted and made a face of dislike. “Must we use this mode of transport, my lord?”

“I’m afraid so, Leopold, today’s terrain is off the road, so a carriage is out of the question,” Eddard said sternly, but he gave Leopold a sympathetic look. “Come on boy, you have to get used to them at some point.”

Leopold sighed. “I suppose.” He looked at an attendant. “Groom, help me up this monstrosity.”

“Careful Leo… horses smell fear,” Robb grinned from atop his own horse.

On top of the beast, Leopold grumbled. “Not well enough.” Only the Gods knew how much he hated horses. 

They rode for two hours until they came to a suitable destination across the White Knife river. The three went fishing once a fortnight. It was a chance for Eddard Stark to teach his eldest son and ward on the what it meant to be a Lord, while being outside of the castle itself. No one could disturb them out here in the open nature, field and sky. Originally, Eddard had intended for this slot of time to be devoted entirely to his wards so that they would feel the compassion of their warden, especially since, when in Winterfell, it was easy to feel his distance when surrounded by his true children. However, Theon Greyjoy had proven to be a poor fisherman, despite being an islander, while Robb proved to be a natural. For Leopold of course, there was no field where he was not a talent in if he put his mind to it. 

“I have something to tell you both,” Ned said, as he threw his fishing rod into the ice-cold lake. The two boys looked at him. “I’ve received a raven from the Capital. It seems the King and court are coming to Winterfell.”

The news surprised both boys. Robb looked at the blonde prince. “What does my dear Father want so badly that he’ll be willing to come all the way North?”

“Jon Arryn has passed away,” the Lord said, with great solemnity.

“Jon Arryn? The Hand? The Lord whose ward you were, Father?” Robb asked. “My condolences.”

“Indeed,” Ned paused for a moment. “So, the King will need a new Hand.”

“And will you say ‘yes’, Lord Stark?” Leopold asked, processing this information. He had a sneaking suspicion that Arryn’s death was not a natural one and he was guessing which information might have caused such a drastic measure. 

“I have no choice. Whatever the king wants, he must have. I may be his friend, but I am, above that, his sworn lord who is bound by oath to obey and serve him. I cannot deny him.”

“What about the family?” Leopold asked almost immediately. 

“We’ll have to separate. The girls and Bran will come with me is what Lady Stark and I have decided.” The solemn eyes of the Lord turned to his son. “You Robb, and Rickon too, will remain here in Winterfell with your mother and act as the acting Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” His eyes then turned to the Prince. “As for you, there is further news.”

“Oh goodie.”

“Lord Tywin Lannister has raised some concerns. He feels that now that you’ve reached manhood it is time for you to journey to Casterly Rock and learn the ways of being the Lord Paramount and Warden of the West. He feels that it is time that you took a wife and started a family. As soon as the journey party reaches The Trident, you are to go down the River Road to get to Casterly Rock.”

Leopold groaned. “Was this all written in the same parchment of paper?”

Eddard laughed. “I know that this is much to take in. Despite the distaste that I feel for your grandfather, I feel that he is right. You, and Robb this includes you as well, are old enough to get married and given your precarious health—”

“Really? ‘Precarious health’,” Leopold interrupted. “I am rarely sick. I am mostly crippled.”

Ned lightly glared. “It is wise for you to start thinking about heirs.”

“With whom? Some bimbo from the Westerlands that is a cousin close enough to call it inbreeding and whose as plain and boring as a brick? Thank you, grandfather, but no thank you.”

“Yes, but unfortunately the more colourful women of your life Leo are off the table. They’ll never pass Lord Tywin Lannister’s approval,” Robb laughed. He made a pun about the colour, since Stark women, particularly those who took no interest in fashion or dress choices, were obliged to mostly wear the grey colours of their banner. 

Leopold rolled his eyes. Eddard made no sign of having heard his Heir speak. 

“Leopold… what I wanted to say is that it might be time for you to say goodbye to Winterfell. The South is calling,” Ned said, as he caught a fish on his line, leaving the Prince to stare at him in shock. 

The impact hit him. A goodbye to Winterfell would mean a departure for his entire childhood. There were so many memories hidden in the cracks of the castle. The grey corridors lined with Stark flags in which he japed with Robb Stark, coming up with all sorts of nicknames for each other; brooding in shadows with the sombre Jon Snow, while those more fortunate than them basked in whatever it was that they lacked; the glass window through which he caught Sansa’s scorching glare when the Septa praised Arya’s (Leopold’s) needlework to be of a greater quality than her own; of Arya he possessed countless memories in all parts of the castle; the specific direwolf statue on which he leaned upon when Bran was showing him how high he could climb the castle walls; the disfigured stone statue of Torrhen Stark in the crypts near which little Rickon asked him so many questions about the mythical Kings of Winter. The very walls danced with the ghosts of remembrances that were sacred to him. To let it all, go, on the whims of his grumpy old grandfather, seemed wrong somehow.

A pebble hit the side of his head. “Hey, earth to Your Highness… you’ve caught something,” Robb gestured to the paddling hook in the lake. Leopold pulled out a fat fish.

@)---‘---,---

The long-awaited moment was upon them. The king’s procession was through the gates of the castle. Lannister and Baratheon guards piled in. A golden carriage, a similar if not the same that brought Leopold here, rolled in. He immediately recognised his fat father riding in on a tall stallion; almost as quickly as he recognised his older brother on top of his own horse. The gold hair and vicious face, in addition to Leopold’s utmost hate of him, made it difficult to miss him.

The Prince, who hobbled beside Rickon on Lord Stark’s left, heard the real Lady Stark ask Lord Stark where his Little Lady Stark was. No sooner than she asked, a scrawny grey dash whizzed past him. A metal helmet propped on her head, she looked at her father meekly, saying sorry with only her eyes. 

The king dismounted and headed straight for Ned Stark. The entire host party bowed low for a moment, except Leo, whose crutches were problematic and, so he settled with only bowing his head. 

“You’ve gotten fat,” were King Robert’s first words.

Ned Stark looked at the king’s own obese belly. The king only laughed and hugged his long-time friend. He moved onto Lady Stark and embraced her, roughly but affectionately. 

“Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

“Guarding the North for you, your grace. Winterfell is yours.”

He shook Robb’s hand, ruffled Rickon’s head, remarked on Sansa’s beauty, asked Arya’s name and saw to Bran’s muscles. He greeted all the Stark children before he moved onto his own son, even though he stood right beside Rickon.

“Lannister.” He nodded curtly. 

“Father,” Leopold replied, with equal short courtesy and he averted his eyes from the king’s. Although he’d never admit it, Robert Baratheon terrified Leopold.

Of all his children, Robert hated Leopold the most. Never taking an interest in his children, he didn't know their true characters. He didn't know that Joffrey wanted his attention, or that Leopold wanted to compensate for his useless legs, or that Marcella wanted to make him proud or that Tommen was an isolated little boy who knew little of masculinity. When he looked at his four children, he saw only the progression of House Lannister but with his crown. At least they styled themselves as Baratheons. Leopold, however, rubbed the salt in the already stinging wound and adopted solely the Lannister name. Tywin Lannister named him his Heir to Casterly Rock. In the king’s eyes, his son had sold the Baratheon name for gold and he hated this spawn the most.

“I trust the Starks have treated you well?”

He looked at Lord Stark. “Exceptionally, your grace. Why Lord Stark might as well be my father. He’s treated me so well.”

Something angry sparked in the king’s eyes and he left his son before he would do something he would regret in public. “Ned, take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.” It had been the first time that Leopold noticed his mother. She had been in the carriage and he was too busy avoiding the glare of his father to notice. Robert ignored her and continued to the crypts anyway. Cersei rolled her eyes, humiliated once again, and made a beeline for Leopold. Unlike Robert, she embraced him warmly.

“My son.” She kissed the top of his golden head and made Leopold’s cheeks flush red with embarrassment. He could already see Arya teasing him about this later.

“Hello, mother.” He coughed to let her know that was enough time for hugging him. She seemed to understand and recomposed herself. There was some water in her eyes. “I trust your journey hasn't been too difficult?” Formality and discipline, he told himself. That was the best way to deal with the swirling in his head. 

“Ours may have been but I can't imagine the difficulty you must have, brother, to even lift yourself onto your own chamber pot on your journey to take a shit.” Joffrey’s taunting and cruel gaze stopped the swirling in his head. The Crown Prince had emerged from behind the Queen’s skirts. As he always does, thought Leopold bitterly.

“Now boys—” the Queen tried to interrupt, but while she was a good mother, she was terrible at diffusing the tension between her two eldest. She loved them both too much to pick a side.

“No mother, the Crown Prince is kind to worry about his brother’s lavatory methods. The next time I need help shitting, I shall call on him. He’s clearly a master of it.” 

“How about the heir to the great house of Lannister be reminded who is next in line to be king? He seems to have forgotten. I could have your head on a spike with the click of a finger.”

“There’s my favourite nephew,” a metal hand hooked him out of his thoughts. There stood Uncle Brawn, tall, golden and as handsome as a fairy tale. Leopold bit back the coming insult and instead flung himself at the armour of the Kingsguard with a large clang, all crutches forgotten. The strong, metal arms of his uncle clasped around him, to support him, to make sure he didn’t fall.

Joffrey stood behind, awkward and forgotten.

If there was any one he was anticipating greeting in the party, it was Uncle Brawn and Uncle Brain. Uncle Brain he would find later, Uncle Brawn he had all to himself now.

“I’ve missed you, Uncle Brawn,” he whispered, and he could feel his uncle’s arms tighten a little bit more around him.

“Is there a private place for us to talk, my son?” The Queen asked, coming back to the pair after giving the Lady of the castle a customary greeting. Her tone was not jealous or resentful towards her brother, but rather that she wanted this whole affair to be a private one.

“Of course, Mother,” for the first time in seeing her, he smiled brightly. “If you would be so kind as to give me my crutches, I would show you the way to my chambers.”

Jaime laughed. “Like hell.” He bent low and picked up his nephew by his legs, flinging the large portion of his body onto his shoulder, then bending low again to pick up the two crutches. “Lead the way, my Prince.”

It was awkward and uncomfortable for Leopold with his belly on his uncle’s hard armour, but he was used to being carried around by various strong stable boys when his crutches wouldn’t suffice; on long steps, for example. He felt weak and vulnerable and hated that feeling every bit, but for his uncle he would endure. “Straight ahead, uncle.”

He looked at his mother, who walked behind his uncle. Her eyes were filled with longing and tears.

This was going to be a long talk, he felt.

His chambers were large, but they were mostly taken up by a massive bed, constructed specifically by the carpenter for the crippled Prince. There was a fireplace burning at the heat of a furnace because the Prince was easily cold. A huge writing desk faced the window and looked out towards a variety of sights like the courtyard where boys practised their swordplay, the rooms of a certain wolfish girl who hated needlepoint and an abandoned tower that had never been refurbished. Books and papers were scattered everywhere in the room. Prototypes of inventions – flying machines, boats, bridges, ladders, castles. The boy was born to be a genius.

“This looks comfortable, Your Highness.” Uncle Brawn stacked the Prince onto the soft bed.

“You’re much heavier than I remember,” he panted, cold breath leaving his mouth. 

“That’s what happens when you grow up, Uncle.” His mother took visible offence from those words, but she didn’t say anything, only swooped in, like hawk, and landed beside him. Jaime sat on Leopold’s other side.

“It’s good to see your sense of humour hasn’t waned with these stoic Northerners,” Jaime laughed and put a proud gauntlet on the Prince’s shoulder.

“What you don’t know, Uncle, is that the Northerners have a better sense of humour than the rest of us. It’s the coldness, you see. You can’t afford to not have a sense of humour in these frozen climates,” Leopold grinned. 

“I suppose.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I’m glad that you’re here, Mother… and Father.” He could feel them looking at each other over his head. “Don’t worry, there are no devils in the walls. We’re all alone.” The Queen’s warmth embraced him and this time he fell into her bosom and clutched her close. “I’ve missed you.”

“We have as well,” the Queen said. “I hope you can forgive us.”

“I understand… kind of.” He detached from his mother. “Hell, if my son had almost murdered my other son, I would have probably done what the King had done too.”

“But to the Starks—”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else. They’ve been very kind to me. They’ve swallowed their hatred of Lannisters for my benefit. They’ve tolerated my disabilities and cultivated my gifts. I’ve felt as if I was at home, except for the coldness. I’ll never get used to this cold, but the Starks are not to blame for the weather.” He pondered on whether he should tell them about all his adventures here. About Lord and Lady Stark’s parental love, or Robb’s skills with a sword, or Sansa’s beauty, or Jon Snow’s sorrows, or Bran’s ability to climb or Rickon’s wild nature, or the direwolves, or what books he’d read. Most of all, he wondered if he should tell them about Arya.

“Of course, the only reason they’ve done all those things is because they think you’re Robert’s son. It would be very problematic if suddenly they found out you weren’t.” Well, that made his choice for him.

That question had plagued him since the day he arrived, and the Starks showed him any kindness. What if they knew that he was not the son of a king, but a bastard born of incest? There were times, when things were especially good, that he was sorely tempted to test out their love and confess of his parents’ perversions. Reason, thankfully, and not emotion, governed him in his decisions usually. He didn’t want to jeopardise his and his parent’s lives.

“Thank you for the reminder,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve thought about that a lot or anything.”

“My darling, it is time that you said goodbye to this place. In a fortnight, the court will be moving back to the capital. The King has ridden to ask Lord Stark to be Hand of the King – he’ll have no choice but to accept,” the Queen told him, looking meaningfully at her brother.

“That much we all gathered.”

“We need you to come to the capital with us. It is time that you finally embraced your role as Heir to Casterly Rock. Your grandfather has written to me. He wants you to start learning the ways of the Westerlands. He wishes to make you the acting lord of Casterly Rock and to take a wife and father sons.”

Horror and fear struck the Prince mute.

“Oh, leave the boy alone, Cersei. You sound like Father.” Jaime tugged the boy closer to him. “Tell me about your life here instead, boy. I want to know. Do you know how to ride a horse? Tyrion and I sent a saddle. Of his design of course.” 

“Where is he anyway?” 

“Where do you think?” Cersei said, harshly.

“Ah yes, there’s a brothel outside the castle walls.” Leopold mentally slapped himself for not putting two and two together.

“How would you know that?” Cersei’s piercing glare bore into her son.

“Not by the methods that you presume, mother. The other ward of Lord Stark, the Greyjoy heir, has a magic cock that is hugely… famous. Have you heard of it? He doesn’t shut up about it sometimes. I made him a song about it for his name-day, if you want to hear it sometime. It’s funny. Anyway, he visits the brothel and he ejaculates… all this information onto anyone he’ll find… as if I don’t have a magic cock.”

Jaime laughed. The Queen rolled her eyes. Secretly, both were happy that Leopold had inherited Jamie’s sense of humour.

“I would love to hear the bard, but later perhaps,” Jaime chuckled, seeing his sister’s discomfort. “Are there any girls that my son would like to use his ‘magic cock’ on?”

He sorely wanted to tell them. He was dying to tell them, despite the embarrassment. They would both disapprove, though, and his chances would be diminished. He took a gamble. “Yes, but Mother won’t like it, so I won’t speak it.”

“A Stark girl,” the Queen rolled her eyes. Why did he feel the need to hide it, again? His mother was a human lie detector.

Leopold shuffled sideways and stared hard at his twisted boot. He didn’t want to ruin the atmosphere. “Let’s not talk about this now.”

“Now, now Cersei. You’re being a bit hypocritical, don’t you think. What’s he supposed to do?”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” Cersei glared hard at her brother.

“Agreed.” Leopold grinned, awkwardly.

“Fine.” Jaime resigned.

Seven years’ worth of awkwardness now fully set in.

@)---‘---,---

The feast was a tiresome affair. For one thing, Leopold didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to see the king groping women and embarrassing his mother. He didn’t want to sit between Joffrey and Marcella. He didn’t want to be in this crowd. 

“So, sister…” He was already bored with the conversation that he was beginning with his sister. “How is the capital?”

“Warmer than this. How did you live in this cold, brother?”

“Hmn,” conversations about the weather were boring affairs. His sister was a boring girl, so was his younger brother. The only sibling that was not boring was his older brother and he would rather suffer boredom than Joffrey’s excitement. Joffrey, who sat beside Leopold, seemed to be making the same choice. “Any marriage deals for you, princess?”

“Not yet, though there are some whispers, but the really juicy news is that Father is organizing a marriage for either you or Joffrey to Lord Stark’s daughters.” That didn’t seem to surprise Joffrey at all. He surely heard them, but he didn’t move from his bored posture. “What are they like, Leo? Lord Stark’s daughters?”

What was he supposed to say to that? Tell his gossipy sister, and by default his filthy brother, about Arya’s fierce, wild nature or Sansa’s pretty needlework that was only slightly better than his. He felt sick to imagine either being Joffrey’s wife. Any girls in the whole world, but those two. Those girls were too precious to him. “Excuse me. I need some fresh air.” 

He grabbed his crutches and left the table towards the direction of the door. He could really use with some fresh air. Maybe he’d find his Uncle Brain. He wasn’t at the feast. How long could a man be in a brothel?

@)---‘---,---

After briefly greeting Benjen Stark, Leopold proceeded towards the cold air. Jon Snow was in the courtyard, but he was talking to someone. As Leopold hobbled closer he realised that it was his Uncle Brain. 

“…Lord Stark is my father.”

“And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you the bastard.” 

“Oh no, is Jon bemoaning you about his bastard problems, uncle? Am I missing the opportunity to bemoan my cripple problems?” Leopold hobbled in and leaned against a pillar beside Jon and facing his dwarfish uncle. Breathing heavily, he looked at his Uncle Brain. “Let’s compromise. I’ll get to your height, but you have to walk to me.”

Tyrion grinned. “Sounds like a fair deal to me.” They embraced, like two old friends and agreed that they should talk. “One last thing. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you.” He looked at his crippled nephew. “Well, we’re off. See you around, Snow.”

They left the bastard to his brooding. 

“I trust the crutches work?” Tyrion asked. They were heading to Tyrion’s designated chamber.

“They’re immensely useful on stairs and such. Also, they don’t make me a lazy git like a wheelchair does.” He made his uncle laugh. 

“I’m glad that I’ve managed to suit my favourite nephew.” 

“Have you ever thought about making yourself some stilts to make yourself taller?” 

“Yes, and I looked completely ridiculous. It doesn’t work if everyone knows that you are a dwarf pretending to be tall.”

Leopold laughed. “I’ve missed your humour, uncle.”

“I’ve missed your laughter, nephew.” They entered the dwarf’s chambers, however long the journey for them was. “Are you old enough to drink?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thank the gods!” Tyrion lifted his head to the skies. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words from you.”

“That doesn’t mean I will get drunk with you, but it does mean I will drink with you.”

“It takes a crack in the wood to make the whole barrel pour out.” Tyrion grinned and brought out the wine with two goblets.

The next few hours were a blur of wine and laughter and Leopold only left his uncle’s chambers in the morning, accompanied by a cracking headache. 

@)---‘---,--- 

“Boy!” Robert Baratheon was making a beeline for him. “We need to talk!” The king has impeccable timing for Leopold has only just left his uncle’s chambers.

Leopold swore under his breath. “Would you like to make it private?”

Robert came closer and leaned his giant frame against the stone wall. In one hand, there was a jug of wine and in the other, there was no goblet. Robert was very drunk.

“Listen here, Lannister,” Robert coughed and then swallowed more wine. “Your mother insists that you come South. She also won’t let me have peace if I don’t wed you to the Stark girl. So, here’s wants to go to happen, you little shit. You’re coming to King’s Landing, you’ll wed the girl and then you’ll go to your fucking Casterly Rock, so that my eyes don’t see you, ever.” Robert spluttered, gruesomely.

“Yes, your grace,” Leopold gritted out. He did not enjoy being spat on by drunken fools.

“Yes… wed and bed Ned’s youngest girl and make more Lannisters to please the high Lord Tywin Lannister.”

That caught Leopold completely off guard. “…T-the youngest Stark girl.”

“What’s her name… Arry or something… the little, grey one that looks like a boy. Your mother insisted, for some reason. Ned was so happy to comply… don’t know why since I promised Joffrey to the pretty one… probably because yours has bled and everything.” Perhaps Robert was saying something more, but Leopold heard little more. He only heard that he was going to marry the girl that he loved. His heart swelled at the very thought. It had been a favourite fantasy of his.

He left Robert to continue his drunken babble and his crutches carried him to Arya’s chambers. 

When they arrived, there was a light burning inside the chamber. He approached with caution. The door to the chambers slammed open with the sound of protesting cries leaving the chambers, followed by Lord Stark. Eddard noticed the luminescent golden hair of the prince immediately. He walked towards them, brooding and angry about how his favourite daughter reacted.

“Robert told you I take it,” Eddard spoke, gruffly.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not… displeased by it?”

“Very much the opposite, sir,” Leopold remained serious to the stoic lord. “I promise you I will protect your daughter with every ounce of my being, even when she doesn’t want me to.”

Those seemed to be the magic words for Eddard Stark as he broke into a relieved smile. “That’s what I want to hear. Lady Stark and I have wanted you and Arya to have a chance together for years. I know you love her. You’re a good lad and I can’t think of any one I’d like more as a son-in-law.”

“Thank you, my lord. I truly hope that I can live up to such high esteem.” He glanced at the door. “Shall I talk to her? Calm the raging storm.”

Ned looked amused at him. “You can try.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I wish you luck.” 

The prince leaned against the wall to rest his legs. With a deep breath, Leopold knocked on the door of the chambers. He was greeted with a very rude and wet “Go Away!”

“Arya! Open the door. We need to talk.”

“You prick!” She screamed. She was crying. “I don’t want to marry. Especially you!” Those words stung badly, but the boy ignored the pain and continued knocking. Knowing this girl for as long as he did, he had swallowed a fair amount of her poison.

“Why ‘especially’?” He turned to a jesting strategy, which had usually amused her. “Do my mangled legs repulse you? You didn’t seem to mind them so much before.”

“It’s not the legs!” Came the sobbing reply. 

Leopold placed himself on the floor at the bottom of the door and leaned back. Standing up was becoming a lot of effort for him and the chances of Arya wanting to see him were slim. “Is it the peach fuzz? I can assure you it’ll be a wonderful lion’s mane one day… or well… if you don’t want me to wear a lion’s mane I suppose I can go bald.”

“I don’t care about your stupid hair!”

Leopold chuckled. “Really, then? I can’t seem to think of any disadvantages to the match. You’ll be rich, well-provided for, have your own castle. I’ll hire you a master swordsman and you can learn how to swing a sword if you like.” He paused. This attack was weak and unconvincing. He’d have to press harder. “…I’ll let you have anything. Just ask.”  
The door unlocked, and he fell backwards onto her room.

“Um… uh… that was abrupt. Here, help me up,” he held his hand up, waiting for her help, but it didn’t come. “Are you deaf? Help me up.”

“You’re a really stupid prick.”

“Why, thank you, my little lady. Such fine compliments only you can provide.” Seeing that she wasn’t going to be helping him up, he sprawled on the floor to be more comfortable. He was good at sprawling on various surfaces. He was like a cat that liked to lie on its back. 

“I don’t want to be your little lady.” Arya gritted out. “Don’t you understand!?”

Leopold masked the pain once again and smirked. “Why not?”

The tears returned to her eyes. In all his years knowing her, Leopold had seen Arya cry a few times and they were always the results of physical harm; a scrapped knee or a broken arm or a bout of tickles. He had never seen any tears of an invisible force, an emotional pain.

“Y-y-you’re my only friend. If we marry, everything will change. You won’t fix my awful needlepoint. I won’t be able to tell you things that I heard about the castle any more. And what’s the point of learning how to swing a sword if you have hundreds of guards around you to protect you… If we marry, we’ll have to… do things… that friends don’t do…. Give you heirs and other dirty things.” Then she truly blanched. “I’d have to become a lady of all things - the Lady of Casterly Rock.”

Lying on the cold floor of his betrothed’s chambers, Leopold did nothing but laugh, while she, frustrated, could do nothing more than pout at being patronised and blush red for revealing such intimate fears. 

Now was the moment for the lion to pounce.

“Oh, Arya… how naïve you really are. Point number 1, remember this. Of course, you don’t have to become a lady if you don’t want to. Don’t be daft. This is you we’re talking about. I can’t force you to do anything. I don’t expect, and nor do I want you to. I want my wife to be a fierce and vicious beast, so that Joffrey and all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms cower in fear from her. Imagine how powerful that would make me! Every lord has some meek, little, submissive doll on his arm, while I have a snarling doll-killing direwolf. You being as you are plays in my favour. Point number 2: you’re going to learn swordfight whether you like it or not. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m a bit useless with a sword… or any weapon for that matter… and we’re going to the South. Sometimes guards will not be around, or worse, they’ll betray us. I’ll need you, my trusted friend who will be bounded to me by a flimsy ring, to protect me from my enemies. We will both have enemies in the South and I pray to God that you can swing a sword for the both of us. Point number 3: I will fix your needlework even if all my fingers are chopped off. Point number 4: I will never tire of your assessments on the goings on in a castle. And my last point, Point number 5, marriage won’t break us apart. Much the contrary, it’ll mean we’ll never be separated. In fact, if you don’t marry me, you’ll have to marry some other worthless little lordling and then we’d truly be separated, forever. So… really… make your pick.” The lion grinned at the girl, victoriously. This was a struggle that he had already won.

She still looked unconvinced, though admittedly much more amused. The redness in her eyes was starting to fade. “You’ll do my needlework if you have no fingers? How do you imagine doing that?”

“With my teeth, of course.” He laughed and, to illustrate, he loudly clapped his teeth together. “Of course, you’ll have to make sure that I don’t swallow the needle, that’ll be very probl— “

“You didn’t answer a certain problem.” Ah, yes… that. He’d deliberately and futilely avoided that one specific necessity of marriage.

“I don’t see a problem,” he joked, feebly. She hit him.

“I do.”

“Arya…”

“You said things won’t change between us if we’re married…” She lowered herself down to the floor and sat beside his broken body. Sadness overwhelmed her at the thought of departing from youth. “…but things will change if we have to do… that.”

“I never said things won’t change. They will. We’ll both grow up. We’ll both change, but that doesn’t mean it will be for worse.”

“Easy for you to say… you’re… older and this thing will be easy for you… y-you’re also a boy!”

“Not completely sure about that last one. With all the needlepoint that I’ve done for you over the years, I’d say I’m the more girly member of this marriage.”

“Be serious.”

“Alright… how about this compromise, then? We won’t do… the unspeakable thing… until you are ready. Until you are 100%, unequivocally and stubbornly ready. Believe me, when I’m done with puberty, you’ll be begging for this lion meat.” He made a show of his admittedly large bicep and Arya rolled her eyes, but laughed nonetheless. “And I’ll say no.” He laughed raucously.

“You promise?”

“I vow on my pretty hair… and you know how precious my hair is to me.”

“Okay… but what if… never mind.”

“Say it.”

“I said never mind.”

“Something is clearly on your mind.”

“What if… I’m not ready. What if I’ll never be ready? What will you do then?” Her voice sounded as if something was stuck in her throat. “What if I fail at this whole marriage thing? I don’t want to disappoint anyone - especially you.”

Leopold wanted to laugh because the notion was so absurd it deserved an ugly sort of laugh. She – Arya Stark of Winterfell – disappoint him… at marriage? But she was telling him complicated feelings, so he stifled the desire to laugh. “You can’t disappoint me.”

She glared at him and looked away. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He sighed. “Can I tell you a secret?” Pause. “Moreover, can you keep a secret, little Lady Stark?”

“Of course, I can.”

“Without letting anyone know? Shielding it to your death, like a soldier?” She laughed. “No, no it’s no joke. A royal prince is giving his most trusted warrior a secret to safeguard from danger. If the warrior should fail with this mission, the prince will trust the warrior no more.”

Arya rolled her eyes again, but listen to him. “The warrior is not laughing. Now what’s the secret?”

The laughter fled from Leopold’s eyes as the impact of the secret on him. He was making a mistake in telling her that he loved her right now. Neither of the two were ready.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. The way he had thought about it since he began thinking about it involved a lot more romance. He wanted to carve it into the stone of Winterfell or Casterly Rock or the Red Keep or all three. He wanted to scream it from the top of his lungs. He wanted to climb to her chambers’ window sill, even if he possessed no legs to speak of. He would make love to her in the snow. He wanted the maesters of the Citadel to write in their books for a thousand years about the great love that he had for this girl. He wanted the whole world to know that Leopold Lannister loved Arya Stark of Winterfell, even if the words Lannister, Stark or love meant nothing to the rest of the world.

“Well… the warrior waits,” Arya said, impatiently.

He thought of something quickly. “The Prince’s secret is… that the Starks have raised him to be honourable and faithful.”

She slumped, disappointed. “That’s a boring secret.”

“Warrior… we’re going to the South. That secret is the most dangerous of all.”

She didn’t seem to heed his warning. She was far too inexperienced of the intricacies of the South to understand it. She would learn soon enough, sooner if she was going to be his wife. His path as brother of the future king and Heir of Casterly Rock was a dangerous and twisted one. His matrimonial partner would have to share it.

“So… are you still mortified that you have to marry the legless beast?”

“You just called yourself a prince!”

“Princes can be beasts too, you know.”

She laughed. “To answer your question - no, I guess. I think… if I must marry anyone… I’d rather marry you. It’s just… marriage is… not really my thing.” She curled into a little grey ball. “I’m going to be pretty terrible at it.”

“You’re the daughter of a high lord. It is your thing,” he reasoned, but his reasoning only bought him glares from the girl. “But don’t worry. We’ll have fun, you and me. We’ll have so much fun that we won’t bother with being good or bad at marriage.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Prick.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

@)---,---‘--- 

With his bride pacified and his respects to the father-in-law paid, Leopold made his way to his mother’s chambers. He knocked and hoped to the gods above that Robert wasn’t present. It was Jaime who opened the door at night and let their huffing son in.

“Almighty Father preserve you, shouldn’t you be more discreet?” Leopold huffed, taking a seat at a stool.

“I’m on Kingsguard duty— “

“I don’t want to know what ‘duty’ implies,” Leopold flinched. The image of his parents making love was a traumatising visual affair for the prince, at seven, when he first witnessed it, and now at fifteen.

Jaime didn’t look amused. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now, young man?”

“I wanted to talk to my mother.” He turned to Cersei, who was brushing her hair by a little boudoir. The gleaming green eyes of his mother were watching him from the mirror.  
“I assume about your marriage.”

“Exactly. Seems a bit too easy and a bit unlike you to just fling girls at your children, especially in the legal way. What do you want in return?”

She was brushing her hair gently, controlled. “Your uncle did some reconnaissance about the castle,” her intense stare turned into the direction of Jaime. “It seems the entire castle believes that you love this girl. We both saw how you looked at her during the feast. Like a puppy that you really, really wanted for your name day.” She was ripping her golden locks with the sharp comb. This was evidently not her idea.

“What your mother is trying say is that this is a peace offering for you, from us,” interrupted Jaime. “Should you have any lingering anger at us for sending you away to live with these barbaric Northerners, we would like to soothe this ruffle. Be a family.”

Arya was a peace offering from the Queen. Oh, how the strings of the game strummed!

He had to play his cards right.

“I’ve yet to wed and bed her, but so far consider me pacified.” He grinned. “But on the additional condition that you get rid of the engagement between Joffrey and Sansa.”

“Robert seems dead set on that union. I can’t promise that I can break it,” Cersei said.

“Mother… if you want your second born to not hate you for sending them away to these so called ‘barbarians’, then you can achieve that by betrothing them to the second born daughter, but if you want that second born to not come after your firstborn as vengeance for these crippled legs, then you’ll break Joffrey’s engagement to Sansa Stark. I hope you consider my offer. Good night.” 

He left them, alone, to ponder.


	2. Putting a Leg Down

He saw Bran fall. 

From his chamber’s window he saw the little climber reach the window and he saw how Jaime grabbed the boy by the collar and a few moments later pushed him out. He saw a boy, who was like a brother to him, plummet to his death…

…and he did not tell anyone.

Leopold Lannister lay in his chamber for hours without leaving. The guilt grew with every passing moment. What was he supposed to do? If he told Lord Stark, he and his family would have their heads chopped off by the king himself? If he didn’t tell Lord Stark, he would be betraying the people that he held dear… and his future in-laws? It seemed like an impossible choice to make.

He had summoned his Uncle Brain to his chambers and explained the dilemma. Uncle Brain was one of the few men that he trusted in this world. He was also one of the few that knew of the Prince’s illegitimacy. The Imp counselled patience.

“Visit the Stark boy. Offer him brotherly comfort. Perhaps write him a letter about living without the use of one’s legs. Don’t do anything to provoke suspicion,” Tyrion spoke. “He may yet live and even if he remembers what happened to him, he will not have seen you watching.” With those words in his mind, Leopold sat beside the ailing Stark boy with the rest of the Stark family, and penned the words that his Uncle advised. Sealed, he placed it on Brandon’s bedside where it would remain until the boy’s eyes opened. 

As the days passed, Maester Luwin assured that the worst was over. Bran would live, though his spine would never recover, and his legs will have no animation. Leopold set about designing a wheelchair and a pair of crutches. With the duty of affection complete, the Prince welled in his guilt alone.

There was a gentle knock on the door. Arya’s face peeked inside. “Leo?” His cold emerald eyes turned to her from across the room and melted into gentle, summer forest orbs. He smiled and felt the summersaults in the depths of his belly.

“Little Lady Stark? What a pleasure.” 

“Your sister wanted to see you.” Arya opened the door wider to reveal Marcella behind her. Stiff, rigid and dressed in gold, the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms walked in, every inch like her mother. It was unnerving.

“Thank you, Lady Arya,” his sister gave a gentle, grateful curtsy. There was the polite warmth in her eyes.

Arya looked appalled. “I’m not a lady!” She stormed out and Marcella, who was at first stunned by the manifestation of thunder, burst into graceful laughter. 

“Well… at least your marriage won’t be uneventful. She’ll be the laughing stock of the capital.” A cheeky glint caught in her green eyes. “They’ll think she’s a bastard or a whore with her outcries. I hate to think what she’ll do with the title of ‘Princess Consort.”

Leopold had not thought of that. Arya’s wild wolf-blood endeared him, but in King’s Landing or Casterly Rock it would at the very least humiliate him and at the very worst get her killed. He made a mental note to correct her, only gently.

“How can I help you, sister dearest?”

“Mother sent me,” she walked inside and made a beeline to his bookshelf. Without subtlety, she began to read the titles. “She wants to know how you would like to travel to King’s Landing. Horse or carriage?”

“Is there a particular reason why I should ride a horse?”

“It won’t win you the respect of the people if you ride with the women and children. Those were Mother’s words.” Marcella took out a book – the Dragon’s Flesh and Bones by Grand Maester Archon.

“Put that back where it was,” Leopold gritted his teeth. The shocked face of the innocent girl flashed before him and it gave a jerk in his heart for being so cruel to the girl. She had done nothing wrong to him, other than being associated with Joffrey. “Please? If Mother commands it, I’ll ride with the horses.” 

Marcella nodded. “Why do you take such an interest in dragons, brother?” She put the book back and looked up and down the crippled body of her brother.

“Fascinating creatures,” Leopold said, dismissively. “When do we leave for King’s Landing?”

“Tomorrow.” Marcella seemed to want to say more. It was the first time that she was alone with her brother in years. The only time that they had interacted was during the feast and since that he seemed to be avoiding her. 

She reflected on her brother. She remembered Leopold Baratheon and beheld Leopold Lannister – the two were very different. 

Leopold Baratheon was their father’s favourite child, or as favourite a child as Robert could tolerate from the Lannister brood; he was carefree, wild and he loved to fight and challenge their Kingsguards to duels while they were on boring duty. He laughed, mocked and swore profusely. He expressed the desire to be a soldier, like Uncle Jaime and Father. How many times had she seen anger fly like a pack of hounds into Joffrey’s eyes, only for Leopold to shield her and Tommen from his wrath? How many times had Leopold said something and she would be off in spasms of laughter? He was most loveable; he was most wise; he was not vain, nor a tyrant. He was the perfect boy.

Leopold Lannister was cool, calculating and studious. He read books on dragons, alchemy, smithing, astrology, history and other such nonsense. He conversed with maesters about ideas her own simplicity could not fathom. He was the Heir of Casterly Rock and the future Warden of the West. He was not the same boy that played with Marcella in the Red Keep’s gardens. She missed that boy so dearly.

“Leo…” She whispered, tenderly and yearningly. She wanted to tell him the thousand feelings that came and went in her mind.

He had been in deep, cold thoughts when she whispered his name and turned to her, with a vacancy in his eyes. “Yes?”

“…never mind.” She bowed her head in shame and looked away to the direction of the door. Her thoughts were sinful. “Be ready tomorrow. Mother will be furious if you’re not.”

@)---‘---,---

Though she was as fierce as the wolf on her family’s banners, Arya Stark was also deeply curious. 

Marriage was a concept that she was often repulsed by, especially when the baneful Septa Mordane talked about it. The old hag never tired of reminding Arya that as a daughter of a Great House she was, despite her many efforts, a highborn lady. Highborn ladies married highborn lords. It was in times like this that Arya deeply hated being a Stark.

Who would ever want to marry her? She had the hands of a blacksmith and the face of a horse, as she was often told. She did not bear any resemblance to a lady. Who would want to marry her, if not for her father’s favour? Perhaps that was why she was so terrified of marriage and being a lady. It meant marriage and marriage would mean unhappiness.  
Then, her father and the king declared that she would marry Leopold Lannister, her best friend.

At first, she was disgusted. Leopold was her closest friend so the idea of being married to him felt like slime was crawling up her spine. He was also the Prince, which meant she would have to be the Princess and that was worse than being a Lady. The whole kingdom would see how ugly and unladylike she was.

But… after Leopold came to her chambers and made a complete and utter fool of himself on the stone floor, she began to seriously question her initial thoughts of the matter.  
Leopold didn’t need her father’s favour, he already had it and even if he didn’t, he didn’t necessarily need it. He was the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and the Heir to another Great House as well as the future Warden of the West. In addition, Leopold never made any objections to her unladylike character or her other flaws.

As the days passed and she thought more about it, particularly to distract herself from the trauma of Bran’s fall, the more she found herself enjoying the daydream of being married to her best friend.

The thought of having complete and unquestionable rights to his warm arms was a sweet thought that cycled and recycled in her imagination. She imagined how, as Lady of the Rock, she could hire all the sword masters in the world and he would only give her a cheeky grin. She made-up the sweetness of being allowed to wear breeches and throwing her hair back and ride horses and spar with the sons of blacksmiths all she wanted, and her husband would not love her less. She imagined children with fierce temperaments and golden hair running around with wooden swords, bearing names like “Ned” or “Robb” or “Jon” …

…Their children? Her momentary lapses into her fantasy world were shattered.

Arya was not naïve. She knew where babies came from and that, as a wife, she would have to… lay with a man on their wedding night. It was another reason why she didn’t want to be a lady or married. It sounded… disgusting, wrong, somehow, especially to do with her best friend. 

There were just some parts of her body that her friend didn’t need to know about nor did she need to know about him. If he was a stranger, perhaps it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable to think about.

As much as she didn’t want to think about what their first night would be like, the thought was inescapable. All she knew was that he would need to put his… thing… inside her, but that sounded too vague. She needed an older woman’s advice.

Her mother, her natural choice, was too busy with Bran and she would rather gouge her eyes out with a spoon than ask Septa Mordane on the subject. What would the old cow know anyway? Septas swore vows of chastity. 

She had no choice. She had to go to Sansa.

Her sister never lay with a man either, but perhaps one of her foolish little songs would give her some sort of idea about the matter. With a bitten lip and heavy heart, Arya knocked on her sister’s door.

“What do you want?” Sansa was brushing her hair when Arya came in and plopped on her bed. Sansa’s direwolf, Lady, came up to Arya’s limp form and licked her hand, in the gentlest possible way. “Shouldn’t you be chasing a rat in the dungeons or something?”

“I came to ask you something.”

“Well… out with it. I’m busy.”

It hurt Arya’s soul to ask Sansa the questions that she wanted to know. “Do you know what… your wedding night might be like?”

Sansa seemed completely oblivious about her sister’s curiosity and instead took this as an opportunity to hyperventilate her own fantasies. “Oh, I’m so happy you asked. Well… Prince Joffrey and I will say our vows in the Sept of Baelor… because the Crown Prince must be married in a Sept of the Seven and not in front of our bloody trees… and then all the best knights of the kingdom will have a joust in the capital. Oh, I do hope Joffrey jousts, though I’d hate him to have any sort of injury on our wedding day. The joust will be followed by a grand feast with the best singers in the kingdom in attendance and Prince Joffrey and I would dance our hearts out- “

“Yes, yes and what about after the feast!” Arya barked, growing impatient with all the boring details of Sansa’s self-absorbed wedding.

Sansa glared at her. “I was just getting to that. The ladies of the court would carry Joffrey away, disrobing him, and the lords would do the same to me and they would bring us to our bedchamber. Then Joff would kiss me and… the rest will be none of your business.” Sansa turned a deep crimson colour at the thought that must have been plaguing her as much as it plagued Arya.

Arya knew how to bait her sister too well. “You don’t know what happens after Joffy Foffy kisses you, do you?”

Sansa turned on her sister, violently and fiercely, like a real she-wolf. “Of course, I know! I just choose not to tell you!” 

Arya grinned, like a cat. “Sansa… I’m your little sister. I have no idea what happens after the kiss. Please tell me. Who else, other than my wise and beautiful sister, would I ask?”  
“Mother.”

“…she’s a bit busy, right now.” 

As Sansa struggled to make a sentence or a comeback, Arya understood that it was a lost cause. The songs that Sansa learnt didn’t teach anything useful, even in the art of love. After Arya grew tired of torturing Sansa with uncomfortable questions, she left the sister’s chambers.

If her mother was busy, the Septa was unquestionable and Sansa ignorant, what woman could she ask about how to lay with a man? The woman that lay with men, it would seem.  
It was not a very difficult task to discover the brothel within Winterfell’s walls. It was near the kitchens, a small hovel in the shadows. She had seen Theon disappear into those shadows often enough, so she knew exactly what it was. 

Quietly, she knocked. A girl of about 19 opened the door and was surprised to find the scrawny, child of the lord standing on her doorstep. “My lady,” she imitated a curtsey.

“I’m not a lady!” Arya growled.

The whore smirked. “Neither am I. How can I help you, not a lady?”

Arya’s fierce, wolfish eyes looked her over. “Do you lay with men?”

The whore giggled. “For a price.”

Arya made her decision. “Good. Then, I have a question for you.”

The whore looked her up and down. “For a price.”

“How much?”

“Three gold dragons per question.”

All the children in Winterfell received an allowance according to their station to spend on whatever they liked, and since Arya didn’t spend her allowances on pretty dress fabrics or dolls, she had managed to save her gold dragons for the swords and bows and arrows of the future. Now, perhaps, would be a more worthwhile investment.

“We’ll see how useful your answers are,” Arya growled and allowed herself into the whorehouse, which was thankfully empty. She didn’t think it would be full at this time, considering it was the middle of the working day. “Where can we talk?”

“Anywhere you like.” The whore went to pour a goblet of ale. “The name’s Ros, by the way. And you are Arya, aren’t you?”

“How do you know my name?”

“You’re the lord’s daughter. Even the rats in Winterfell know your name.” Ros handed her a goblet. “Are you old enough to drink?” She asked, after handing the goblet. The whore was no mother and she had no mother, so the logistics of caring for babes were lost on her. “So, what does the proud lord Stark’s daughter want to know?”

Arya took a large gulp of the ale. She needed her courage if she was going to divulge her troubles to this whore. “What is it like to lay with a man?”

For some time, Ros laughed. To have a highborn lady ask her what it was like to experience laying with a man tasted like divine justice. 

“Shouldn’t this be a question for your Septa? Or your mother?”

“What would the Septa know? She’s a 60-year-old maid.”

“The daughters of lords usually learn their womanly ways through her.”

“I hate the Septa. Now answer the question or you’ll see those gold dragons like the back of your ears.” 

“Well… where do I start.” In the light of the candles, the whore grinned wickedly. She stood up and slipped the gown off her body she stood before the girl stark naked. Instinctively, Arya looked away. “What are you ashamed of, little girl.” The whore mocked her. “It’s all just flesh and bone. It’s a body that’s not that much different from yours.”

“I… can’t…”

“Why can’t you? Afraid of a pair of breasts? Is that what your sixty-year-old hag taught you?” The whore made a deep voice. “’Beware Arya! Look not at your wicked breasts, you, impure little wench!’ Or something like that.”

To prove the whore wrong and herself of bravery, Arya looked. It was a pale, alabaster coloured body that had sharp bones poking from beneath the skin, plump breasts, a tight belly and hips, wide red curls where the legs met and thin legs. Arya took in the full body of the whore.

“If you seek to please a man, you must first learn how to please yourself and the first step to that is to not be ashamed of yourself. Let your self-righteous Septa go on at lengths about how shameful it is to look at a woman’s body. But how can a man receive pleasure from it if you don’t?” She looked the girl right in the eyes. “Remember this: a woman’s body was made by the gods for pleasure.”

“I didn’t come here to learn how to please the prick. I came to learn what I could expect on my wedding night!” Arya barked. 

“Oh, congratulation to you and… your prick,” the whore giggled, and Arya blushed at the name she had used for her betrothed. “If you’ll be a fool, you’ll be brought to your chamber by a group of drunk, lecherous, old men, where you’ll be laid on the bed and… the prick will fuck you bloody like a hound takes a bitch.” The whore gave an unflattering impersonation of that to prove her point. Arya somehow doubted that Leopold would do that to her, but this whore knew more about it so she bowed her head and listened. “You won’t enjoy it. No foreplay, no southern kisses, nothing.” The whore’s smiled turned wicked. “But if you’re clever and do as I tell you… the wedding night will be something to look forward to and your husband will have no need to seek pleasure from women such as myself.”

“He won’t anyway… we’re going to King’s Landing soon,” Arya mumbled.

“Even more dangerous. There are more whores in King’s Landing than anywhere else. In Winterfell, there is only me.”

Ros the Whore spent the better part of three hours explaining to the Lord’s daughter the art of love making and had to send several men who came seeking her services out of the brothel because she was earning more money with a little girl than with all the beasts combined. When Ros got around to the Southern Lord’s kiss, Arya revolted claiming that it was foul and disgusting and degrading. The whore was patient. When Ros explained that the man’s stamina would give out first, Arya whooped with pride. The whore was patient. When Ros explained the mind of men, Arya scoffed at their stupidity. The whore was patient, but her efforts seemed to pay off.

Arya had gone inside the establishment a child and left a woman. 

@)---‘---,---

The day of departure had arrived. Leopold hobbled towards Jon Snow to say his goodbyes. The Starks ruled the North, but Jon Snow was the North. It was only right that the Prince paid him homage. When he explained this to the bastard, he only rolled his eyes at the Lannister’s antics.

“Won’t you ever grow up, Leo,” Jon mumbled, solemn and brooding, as he always was. “I hardly see any reason for your japes.”

“I’m the Prince of Summer and you’re are the Prince of Winter. I laugh, and you brood. I hardly see any reason for your solemnity.” That made the Prince laugh more and the Snow brood darker thoughts. “Listen, Prince of Winter… I have some words for you before you leave for your wall.” 

The bastard’s dark face soothed to the shiver of a smile. “What words?”

“Jon, don’t go to your wall. Just say the word and I can make you my Sworn Shield. You’ll be able to fight beside the greatest of them all – Barristan the Bold, Jaime Lannister, Arys Oakheart, Loras Tyrell – all most chivalrous of men. I could use your dour face and your true sword. You could protect your family if you swear. You and I could both protect Lord Stark and Sansa and…. And Arya. Please, Jon. Don’t waste away on that rotten wall.”

Jon regarded the Prince with solemnity. Despite the difference of their births, Leopold had always treated him with respect. He held no qualms with bastards. Pride, however, stopped Jon. “I wouldn’t want to offend Lady Catelyn. Besides, the Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. There’s great honour serving in the Night’s Watch. What honour will I gain watching you eat, drink and shit like your Kingslayer uncle does over your royal father?” Jon Snow patted the horse and strapped the beast, while Leopold stood well-aware from it. “Still afraid of the beasts?”

“Their fronts are as vicious as their behinds.” Leopold spoke, getting ready to leave. “Well, then, Prince of Winter. Should you need anything, write to me? I could use with some Northern humour when surrounded by Southern fools.”

Jon looked him in the eye. “Leo… promise me one thing… look after Arya. I don’t care who you kill or who yanks your lion tail. Protect her, even when she doesn’t want to be protected.” 

Leopold chuckled. “You are more like Lord Stark than you think, Jon.” The Prince of Summer summoned the rare drops of his own solemnity. “I promise, Jon. I’ll do everything in my power to protect your little sister. I love her more than she’ll ever know. I’d rather have Boltons peel the flesh off my skin with acid than let any harm come to her.” 

Jon seemed pacified with the promise. The Prince of Winter embraced the Prince of Summer with brotherly affection. “See you around, Your Highness.”

Leopold nodded and turned around to find the object of his promise. It was very easy to find the scowl of forced attendance to the Queen’s carriage. The valiant prince journeyed to rescue his wild princess from the evil Queen’s claws.

“Mother!” He practically roared across the yard. The damned crutches were so tiresomely slow. “Please wait.”

“My son? I thought you said you were going to ride by horse?” She waited patiently for him to arrive to her, eyeing the crutches that crippled her beautiful, glorious son.

“Oh I am. The beast is saddled and waiting. However, I wanted to steal my betrothed from you. You see, I don’t trust horses and she is better with them.” He grinned at her and she had gratitude dancing in her eyes. “We don’t want me to lose my hand in another accident, do we?”

Cersei saw the exchange between her son and the Stark girl and rolled her eyes. There was nothing she could do to stop him. “Very well. Off with you.” She didn’t reckon that the youngest Stark girl was any pleasant company – rude, wild and intemperate, just like a she-wolf. Cersei was beginning to regret her efforts in her son’s betrothal.

Arya was only too happy to mount the horse with Cersei’s son and kick the stirrups of the saddle designed for his mangled. It did not escape Cersei’s eye how her son’s arms wrapped around the girl’s waist and he pressed the side of his golden face to her cheek. The girl’s kick was fierce, and the horse galloped off with rapid speed, but despite her son’s fear of the equestrian race he showed no sign of terror while with her.

Her son was in love, Cersei knew, gravely.

@)---,---‘---

“So… why the rescue?” Arya asked, arching her back into the lion fur of the Prince’s clothing. If there was anything she could take from their betrothal it was his southern warmth with which he seemed to radiate even in the cold. It had been a shock to see Leopold wear crimson and gold robes. Those garments had been stored in wardrobes to await formal occasions and sent often via messengers from his grandfather, but in Arya’s opinion the grey and black boiled leather and wolf pelts of House Stark suited him better.

“We need to talk,” he said, solemnly. His arms, which she knew very well were wrapped around her waist, seemed to tighten more. “…about Kings Landing and our betrothal.”

“What about it?”

“My grandfather has sent instruction that I am to go to Casterly Rock. He’s of the opinion that I must start learning the way of the West, rather than the North.” Leopold was silent for a long time. “My grandfather does not like Starks. He’ll find a way to get me out of the engagement if he really wants to.”

She felt a heavy rock plummet in the depths of her stomach. Just when she was getting comfortable with the idea of marriage, he had to go and swing this mighty hammer of his grandfather to smite this delicate butterfly. “…Oh.”

She could practically hear the insolent smirk dancing on his lips. “Is that disappointment I sense?”

She decided to play his game. “Oh yes… I was so looking forward to seeing that lion meat that you promised me.” That made him stagger and stutter for a moment. She gave a victorious smirk.

“Urgh…” He cleared his throat. “Well… not all is lost. I talked to our fathers this morning. It seems that our wedding is scheduled a few weeks after your 12th name day.” He began to mumble. “You see… since you’ve… bled, you are a technically a woman and so of marriageable age. And considering that we’ve known each other for so long… why wait?”

This she knew very well as she was still embarrassed of the method with which he found out of her new-found status. “If it even happens. You just told me your powerful grandfather will buy you out of this engagement.”

“There is hope, though it will require some effort.” Leopold regained his usually cocky composure. “My grandfather technically does not care who I marry, as long as I produce heirs for his proud name and that my wife is of good enough birth, which you are. He would simply prefer it was someone more to the South… like a Tyrell or Martell or some lady from the Westerlands. Marriage is a business, you see. The North doesn’t have anything that my grandfather wants.”

“So, where’s your solution?”

Leopold smirked. “What makes the little Lady Stark assume that I have one? Last time I checked she was crying over the prospect of marrying me.”

Arya glared at the boy. “Because you’re a Lannister… you always have a plan with how best to subjugate me.”

The Prince chuckled. “Usually, I do… but I must ask of you one small question.” He paused. “Say the word and our marriage will not go on. Say the word and I will not act on my ‘solution’.”

Arya didn’t say anything for a very long time, which irritated Leopold to no end. She simply stared at the road and guided their horse in the necessary method. It was not a brief silence because it lasted for over a few hours and the two had even begun a whole different conversation in the meantime. With a downcast heart, the Lion understood that the She-Wolf did not want to wed him. 

“I do wonder, Your Highness, whether you would share more of your plans with your wife?” Arya said, several hours later. 

Leopold crooked an eyebrow. “My lady?”

“Well, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve held secrets… from everyone, even me. Your books were out of bounds and your lips were tied shut— “

“Does my lady want to have a go at prying my lips open?” He jested to disguise his distaste for the coming conversation.

“Maybe with a good hammer or a pair of pincers,” she shot back at him, in generous jest. “It just occurred to me… what use would I have to be your wife? What privileges would I get as your wife that I wouldn’t as your best friend? What could you give me in exchange for my vows and… my childbearing abilities.” She was acting out the words that the whore had taught her. Useful words they were, for the Prince looked at he like he was struck dumb because he never really thought about it. She gave him time now. Their journey would be a month long. Thankfully, it seemed that her betrothed didn’t require that much time.

“Well… aside from the wealth and the prestige of my famous house… you would gain my eternal protection. No one would ever harm you or those you love when we swear our vows – at least, not without vengeance. Then… you would also gain the freedom that only I could provide for you. I’ll hire for you all the Sword Masters from all the corners of the world if you want. Sew or slay, I’ll be your husband all the same. What more do you want? Ask for anything.”

In many ways, Leopold applauded Arya’s thinking. Their marriage was not one like Sansa’s pretty songs. Their marriage was a deal – freedom for love, singularity for unity, childhood for adulthood – like Lannisters preferred. 

Arya thought about it a lot since her 30 gold dragons were given to the whore of Winterfell. “I want to know what is inside that little red book that is always in your breast pocket.”  
He seemed surprised. He had thought that no one ever noticed it because he put his best efforts into making it invisible. Not Lord Stark, or Bobby, or his Uncles could ever know the contents of his little red book for it possessed the most dangerous secret in the kingdom. “Why?”

“The most guarded secret in the kingdom? Why wouldn’t I want to know what it is?” She smiled, cheekily.

“I’ll give you an answer when you answer my question: what will you give me?” It was her turn to play the game that she had started.

She required some moments to think of a repayment. “Well… I would give you heirs, horrifying as that prospect is for me— “

“I have no interest in heirs whose mother doesn’t want to have them. If I want a breeder, I can marry any girl. What else do you have?”

“I do want them!” She growled to silence him. “Perhaps not immediately, but someday!” She turned around and continued to list her dowry. “Firstly, heirs to continue your name. I’ll risk my life birthing them and I’ll raise and protect them while you ruler our lands. Secondly, my family’s allegiance and warm affection— “

“I have that even if I don’t have your hand. The Heir of Winterfell and I are very close. What more?”

“Wise council?”

“I can buy all the Maesters in the world.”

“A true sword?” 

“Equally, I can buy all the sellswords I want. Granted they’ll never match a Stark’s honour and loyalty but as long as I am richer than anyone else the smart sellsword will never betray me.”

She huffed, running out of ideas. “What do you want from me then?”

He paused for a moment, calculating. “Your love.” It was a simple answer to which she stiffened. “I want to marry a woman who will love me. A woman who will amuse me when I am sad and knock my head when I am foolish. A woman who will be able to calculate how to keep my love. A woman who would not put her own pride above my humiliation. A woman who would kill for our children and shield my back from stray arrows. A woman who would bring colour to a dull Lord’s life. I want a woman who would kiss me sweetly and make love to me.” He sighed. “Can you give me any of that?”

She had listened and stayed silent. His words echoed in her ears. He wanted her love. He wanted her love. He wanted her love. “Add another condition for me and I’ll say yes.”  
He smirked. “I’m curious to hear.”

“You will take to your heart only your wife.”

“My lady… that’s part of our sacred vows anyway. You’ll have to be more creative than that.”

“Yes, but this one you’ll keep. Your parents said the same vows and I saw your father try to conceive a royal bastard with the kitchen maids of Winterfell. No mistresses, no lovers, no admirers, no one. Do you understand?” She glared into his emerald eyes so fiercely that the proud golden lion shrunk in the saddle.

“I… understand. Don’t worry. If I am married, I’ll make love only to my wife. What did the Prince tell his most trusted warrior? The Starks had raised him honourable and true.”  
Arya mumbled inaudibly at that. “Well, if I concede, will you share your secrets? All of them?”

Leopold laughed. “I thought you just wanted to know what was in the red book.”

“I do, but now I realise that you have more secrets than that book.” Arya did not look him in the face. “For starters, you never told me that you craved my love.”

Leopold blanched. “I didn’t mean you specifically. I meant… women… in general.”

“Any general woman can be trained to love you. Any Tyrell or Martell or Westerner. You, for some reason, want to marry me, specifically.”

Leopold broke the mask of formality that they had formed in the past hour or so. “Arya… listen to me… you’re very wise suddenly and I like it… but listen to me. Yes, I do want to marry specifically you because…” Oh, how he yearned to tell her the real reason. “Well, I trust you and I’m rather fond of you, my friend. We’ve known each other for longer than either of us has been alive. I dread marriage as much as you do, you do realise that? But if I have to marry and father children and do all my lordly duties then I’d rather do so with you.”

She looked at him and smirked. “Well that’s good. I think you’ll find that I’m rather fond of you as well.” She steered the horse to stop. “Perform your solution, Prince Leopold. I expect you in Kings Landing in three full moons time for my twelfth name-day and our wedding.”

@)---‘---,---

The most dangerous secret in the Seven Kingdoms was in fact what Leopold liked to call a “bicycle”. A strange machination that he had been designing for months now, one of the several great projects he had undertaken. It would give him the ability to transfer large spaces without the need for any horses. How he hated the damned creatures!

If it was successful, he could develop it further. He could enlarge it, attach weapons to it and make it into a weapon of fury. If it fell into the hands of Varys or Littlefinger or gods forbid the Crown Prince he’d be done for.

The designs were not yet complete, however. There was no prototype and in his red breast pocket book were the designs of the various parts that he required. He had hoped to hire several blacksmiths in King’s Landing to create the parts but since he had urgent business with his grandfather in the West, he’d have to make do with the smiths of Lannisport or the few there that did not mould gold.

The bicycle was not his only project. There were others. Locked in a trunk that was sealed with a lock that could only be opened by the key around his neck was the plans for a printer – a fast and effective way to print book pages without the use of old, slow Maesters. 

His most precious idea, though, was stored in the safest place yet – his mind.

When he and the Stark children huddled around Old Nan for her stories, Sansa always wanted princes, knights and chivalry while Bran asked for ghosts, white walkers and fear. When it was his turn (or Robb’s for that matter), he asked for dragons. Magnificent beasts, she described. No man or army could fight against a dragon. No earthly thing could conquer a dragon. Nothing matches the power of a dragon. But the dragons are gone now, Old Nan would say. You can’t bring them back, she said. 

Well, Leopold certainly liked a challenge. His mind held a dragon a prisoner. His mind was fashioning the Iron Dragon.

Fire made lead, he jotted down the words in the corner of his book before a Lannister soldier rushed into his room in the Inn of the Kneeling Man.

“My Lord!” The man shouted, startling the boy. “Forgive me. Lady Arya has been lost. The whole party is looking for her. She attacked the Crown Prince.”

That was all that was needed to send Leopold flying for his crutches. “Take me to the King! Now!”

Joffrey wore a smirk on his face when Leopold entered the hall, as if he had already fashioned the consequences in his favour. The King sat on a chair on a dais, the Queen on his side, the guards and the Starks. Arya was ready to murder someone, and Sansa had tears in her eyes. Lord Stark stood sombre. 

“What is the meaning of this? What happened?!” The lion roared at his brother, father and mother.

“You’re not who we summoned,” Joffrey growled, insolence etched on his face. “The wolf bit me! I want it botched. That wretched dog of hers attacked me, father! Then she and that butcher’s boy beat me with clubs!”

“That’s not true!” Arya vehemently protested.

“Poor little Joffy Foffy,” Leopold mocked him with a curled lip. “Did a little girl scare you? Do tell me how she and… a butcher’s boy… disarmed the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms who had live steel and the butcher’s boy had… what?... a bone of ham?” Robert guffawed in amusement as did the Stark guards.

Anger flew into Joffrey’s eyes. “They outnumbered me! And that damned wolf… and Sansa can attest to it.”

The auburn-haired girl stood there, with puffy eyes. “I… didn’t see…”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our future king! Proud as a stag and brave as a lion, hiding behind the skirts of his mother and his bride.” Leopold joined the king on the dais and the two bellowed in laughter, while the Queen and Crown Prince glared daggers.

“Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life!” Cersei bit at her husband.

“Yeah? So, will this one,” Robert pointed to Leopold’s mangled legs and the crutch that supported his weight. “Should we send Joffrey off across the kingdom too? Last Hearth maybe this time? Or Castle Black?”

“Let’s chuck him to the wildlings father – they’ll grow a manhood for him,” Leopold said and both he and Robert laughed at the absurd thought. With fury, Joffrey stomped out of the room., making it a point to grip his bloodied hand tightly. His vengeance had not worked, but perhaps pity would.

Cersei turned viciously at the two laughing men. “I want that wolf killed, do you hear me Robert? I will not have that beast running around The Red Keep terrorizing my children. If you are half the king I thought I wed, the wolf pelt will be on my bed by sunrise.”

Sansa began to cry about Lady and her innocence. The guilty wolf had seemed to run off into the woods and the guards were unable to find it, though Leopold had a pretty good idea of what trick to use to find the wolf. It couldn’t have gone far.

“Is this your command, Your Grace?” Ned shouted over the wailing of his perturbed daughters.

“Go change his diapers, woman. The whelp has wet himself.” Robert gulped a tank of ale and started to laugh once again. In his glee, he passed the mug to his second son who only sipped.

“Your Grace, don’t kill the wolves. It would make a bad start to Lord Stark’s ascension as Hand if you kill the beast of his sigil. Let me take them with me to Casterly Rock. I depart tomorrow. Her Grace won’t bother with wolves that are nowhere near her and her threats are meaningless to you.” Leopold cast his eyes at his foster father who looked stunned at his ward’s ability with words.

Robert gulped and sat back. “Very well. Take the wolves, boy. And give that Grandfather of yours my regards.”

@)---‘---,---

“Thank you, Leo,” Sansa whispered to the Prince as she stroked the hair of her beloved direwolf. It was time to say goodbye. The tears had dried from her face of crying for the whole night. “I realise I never got the chance to tell you how grateful I am that you did that last night. It was very gallant.” Sansa could speak words as sweet as those songs of hers. If she learnt how to play the game, it would be a valuable weapon, alas such was the folly of the maiden that wisdom did not flow with the young.

“He’ll do worse you know… Joffrey. He can do worse things to you than kill your pet.” Leopold warned her. “He has done worse to me than kill my favourite pet.” He noticed her eyes briefly skim down to his mangled legs. 

During his time in Winterfell, Sansa always viewed him with godlike reverse for he carried the title of ‘Prince’ and his brother was the future king, but he grew bored of her songs and fairy tales and she grew tired of his… disappointing figure. He was not shaped like one of her knights, nor did he talk a great deal about the South and when he did it was to complain about his horrid older brother. He had never been what she expected in a Prince. 

“I… I’m sure His Highness meant no harm,” Sansa warned. 

Leopold only sighed. “One day you’ll understand, I’m sure, when it’s too late.” He looked away from her. “What could possibly be taking your sister so long?” The two had been waiting at the horses for some time. Leopold and Arya needed to find Nymeria before the sunbreak.

“She loves you, you know.” 

“No… she doesn’t.”

“She does. I know her. She really does. She just doesn’t know how to express it.”

“Sansa… your sister doesn’t believe in love and fairy tales and such nonsense. Our betrothal is solely for the benefit of our families. She wants nothing more than to please Lord Stark.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Neither of us believe that.” She looked up at him from the ground. “But you love her, don’t you?”  
He didn’t answer.

Sansa jumped up in pure joy. “You do! And she does! You two are made for each other! Oh, it’s so romantic.”

“Sansa!” Leopold growled. “Your stupid romance nearly got your Lady killed!” His eyes turned to solid minerals. “Have you no regard for the lesson you’ve just learnt?”

“Of course, I care about Lady, but the danger has passed. Your wedding is yet to come. Oh, I’m so excited—” 

“Why are you excited?” Arya came up, holding a small bag in her hands. “You’re not coming with us, are you?” 

“What took you so long?!” Leopold roared at her, eyeing the package in her hands. “What is that?”

“Meat… to lure her,” Arya whispered. 

Leopold grabbed the package and shoved into Sansa’s hands. “Nymeria and every other creature in the damned forest. Get on the horse. You’re steering the beast.” Leopold awkwardly climbed behind her. Lady was on a leash, held by Sansa, staying guard until the two fiancés return from the ride to look for Nymeria. 

As he had predicted, it did not take long to find the fierce beast. The hunters at Winterfell schooled the boy in the arts of hunting, though he’d never been hunting in his whole life. Wolves were the masters of the forests and they would find you before you could even get a glimpse of them. Naturally, Nymeria came bounding up to them in no time.

“Hey girl. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry for throwing rocks at you girl.” The wolf didn’t seem to mind. It licked her face until Arya’s tears turned into laughter.  
When they returned to the Inn of the Kneeling Man, both Arya and Sansa pledged their wolves to Leopold’s command and saddle, binding their leashes. The two wolves gave Leopold a good nuzzle when he approached them – they both knew him and his smell too well.

It was as the Royal party were about to depart and the Lannister party mounting for the River Road, that Leopold Lannister caught Arya Stark under the shelter of the horse stables. With the aroma of manure and the sound of horses battling their riders, Leopold and Arya shared their final embrace as betrothals. 

“I’ll keep them safe,” he told Arya as she departed from his arms. She only glared at him.

“You mean they’ll keep you safe, prick.”

“I will certainly miss your sense of humour at the Rock,” Leopold laughed. “And your charming nicknames.”

She stepped closer to him, closer than she’d been in a very long time, as the tips of their noses almost touched each other. “Then you better come back quickly, don’t you? My name day is approaching fast… and you better bring me a gift from the Rock.” Her grey eyes mischievously twinkled and it was too much for him to take.

“How about an early one?” He grabbed her face in his hands, ignored the gasp of shock from her mouth and stole her breath as he crashed their lips together, like waves meeting with sea rock. She was too shocked to do anything, but he didn’t need her to. All he wanted was her warmth – her love. He savoured her taste for as long as he could and leapt onto his horse, charging out of the Inn. 

The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back.


	3. Getting Itchy Feet

Leopold dreamed of falling.

The nightmares took many forms. Sometimes it was himself that was falling from a horse or from a tower. Other times he dreamed of pushing someone else out of a window into a bottomless pit. Occasionally, it was a horse that pushed him. Always he woke up to a cold sweat and a direwolf’s wet kisses.

The grey creatures slobbered him in tender licks until he woke up and one or both would stay with him until the boy fell back into sleep, which was rare. If the gods chose to plague him with nightmares, it was a sure sign that he was not to sleep. He resorted to reading under an oil lamp with his head propped up by a wolf’s body until their camp would push on west to his inheritance. 

“Thanks, girl,” Leopold ruffled the fur, not bothering to distinct which wolf it was under the dim glow of the dying campfire. 

That night was an especially gruesome dream. He dreamed of himself and Arya in the Broken Tower, only his lower half belonged to a horse – he was a centaur. He, in his horse-like appearance, was forcing himself onto Arya and when Bran caught them in the window Leopold used his horse hind legs to kick the boy out the window. It was a horrible kind of dream. 

The Prince looked at the camp. Most of his men were asleep and there were two guards on watch. He couldn’t be bothered to light a lamp for his books, so he just lay there beside the wolf. It was ample opportunity to think about what was to come. 

Casterly Rock was only half a day’s ride now. He’d finally be meeting the great Tywin Lannister for the first time.

It was a strange situation. Despite being the man’s immediate and recognised Heir, Leopold had never met the man. Yes, his grandfather came to King’s Landing for the birth of each of his grandchildren, but the last time was when Tommen was born, and Leopold was 4 years old at the time. He had no memory of the man he was to inherit the titles and lands from.

He had heard a lot about him though. How rich and powerful the Old Lion was a common tale even in Winterfell. Lord Stark did not like to talk about Robert’s Rebellion, but other sources had informed Leopold of the Sack of King’s Landing and the numerous war crimes that could be attributed to Tywin Lannister. Other sources also told him of Tywin’s legacy as Hand of the King and how the kingdom prospered under his rule and of course, about the Raynes of Castamere. Leopold had grown up on nothing but stories of the man. He sounded intimidating. 

It was with doubt that Leopold viewed the ‘solution’ that he promised to Arya. It was a simple plan: view the situation, find leverage and gamble from there. The plan sounded as confident as he felt about it. Perhaps that was why he didn’t tell Arya anything of it. She looked a little disappointed when he told her that their engagement could be annulled, which brought a sudden mad smile to his golden face. 

She wanted to be married to him.

He had to deliver it now.

Leopold woke the entire camp. It was time that they carried on their journey into the belly of the beast. 

Both wolves were out hunting. They always hunted after he was awake, and they always found his horses after the hunt, trailing by his steed with a dead, bloody rabbit in their throats. 

“Your Highness,” one of his guards came up to him. “The camp is ready. Would you like help onto your horse?” 

“That would be appreciated,” the Prince stretched out of his arms to the guard, like a little boy wanting to be picked up by his mother. The strong soldier settled him onto his horse with ease. “It is only half a day’s ride, or am I mistaken?” 

“Yes, Your Highness,” the guard said as he ensured the legs were strapped properly.

“Bollocks,” Leopold swore under his breath. It was then that Lady came back with a thrashing rabbit barred between her teeth. She sat down and crunched its neck. Blood dirtied her well-groomed coat. For a creature so gentle, she could kill her prey effectively. “Tasty, my Lady?” Leopold smirked, watching the wolf, who responded by chewing at him in delight. Nymeria was nowhere in sight. He turned to the camp of twenty red cloaks. “Onwards.” 

They rode for hours in peace and quiet, before they were set upon.

A great, male mountain lion attacked their party. 

A fierce, terrifying beast whose black eyes were wild with bloodlust. He had pounced on one of the red-cloaks and tore out the man’s throat before anyone could do anything. A frenzy of roars, screams and swords began. The direwolf tried to face him but she was a lot smaller and weaker than the great lion. He dealt with her with a sharp swat in the muzzle. The red cloaks were all mounted, so it was more difficult to spear the allusive lion down below. Five men rode up to Leopold to shield their Prince, while the others fought the blood thirsty creature. The vicious beast slaughtered three men, wounding another two, before Leopold rode up to the beast, waving a lighted torch and rearing his horse. Wounded and scared of the fire, the lion fled back into the woods.

“How many are dead?” Leopold asked his captain, relieved that the threat was over. 

“Three dead. Two wounded.”

“Load the wounded with a rider. Toss the bodies of the men on the spare horses. Is the direwolf alive?”

“Yes, Your Highness” another man shouted, tending to the wolf. Slowly, she recovered consciousness. She was healthy enough to resume her trot beside the Prince. 

“I do hope your sister hasn’t gotten herself into a similar kind of trouble as we did. Arya would kill me,” Leopold told the wolf. Lady only whined in response. She didn’t seem sad or in mourning, so Leopold assumed that Nymeria was fine. The two could feel when the other was in harm’s way.

Nymeria proved to be her owner’s pet and did get herself into trouble. She came up to Leopold’s side with something other than a rabbit in between her teeth. When Leopold looked at her, he did a double take. “Nymeria!” The party stopped, and the Prince dismounted from his horse.

She held a small, golden lion cub, who’s paws were brittle pillows that hid long, black claws. The eyes were the colour of jades. His coat was softer than the wolfs’. It was a tender beast – not yet a killer. Nymeria proudly wagged her tail and looked at the Prince expectantly. 

Leopold took the cub with him into the saddle and the pup purred in delight. Their party was becoming more bestial by the day.

[][][][][][][]

Casterly Rock was as grand as its songs made it out to be. Overlooking the western coast, the cream stronghold was more a palace of luxury than a fortress. It towered over the city of Lannisport beneath it, evidently reminding its people that it was their dread overlord. The red banners flew proudly over and under head and the snarling face of a lion decorated every gate, wall and chamber pot. 

So, this was Leopold’s inheritance: a perfect castle overlooking a sea, vast green lands perfect for farming and dozens of lords who were pledged to serve him in whatever way he saw fit. He could live with that.

Tywin Lannister greeted his grandson himself. He was a stoic man and welcomed the Prince with the utmost sterility. Instantly, Leopold felt that it was a different kind of stoicism from the Starks – this man bore no love for anyone.

With difficulty, Leopold dismounted from his horse and waited for his crutches to be brought to him by some servant. He noticed how fiercely the Old Lion glared at his mangled legs. 

“Casterly Rock welcomes you, Prince Leopold,” Tywin, tall, proud and stern, gave the first greeting. 

“Thank you, Lord Lannister,” Leopold tried his best not to hobble when he neared the man. He failed, he thought. Tywin’s glaring gaze at his greatest weakness was clear for all to see.

“How fares the king?”

“Well enough, my lord.” Leopold was too focused on the glaring green eyes of his grandfather to even think about the king’s health.

“How was your journey?”

“Eventful, my lord.” 

A brow was raised. “Oh?”

“We were set upon by a mountain lion, my lord,” the captain of Leopold’s guard stated. “Killed three men. Wounded two. The brave Prince scared it away with a torch.”

“A bad omen,” Tywin’s iron voice boomed in Leopold’s ears.

“Not entirely, my lord,” Leopold took the cub from his saddlebag. “One of my wolves brought me a gift.” In his arms, the cub mewled like a small kitten.

“One of your wolves?” Tywin’s glare turned to the two grey creatures that stalked around Leopold’s feet.

“Yes. I lived with the Starks. They gifted me with two wolves.” Lying was perhaps not the best way to start the relationship with his grandfather, but he sensed that if he said that they were under his protection Tywin Lannister would laugh. Though the thought of Tywin laughing was an odd one. “They’re very good at protecting me from harm,” another lie. Nice going, Leo, he thought.

“I see.” Tywin did not look very pleased. “Very well. My servants will escort you to your chambers, Your Highness. You will have time to rest from your journey. I’m sure it was a long one. In the evening, you are expected to attend dinner with myself and the Lannisters of Lannisport. If you wish, you may roam the castle as freely as you want. It is, after all, your home now.” 

It didn’t feel like home. From the outside, it looked sun-kissed, creamy and warm. Once Leopold had ridden through its gates and dismounted his horse, it felt colder than the North ever could be.

I am not the Heir that Tywin expected. The thought was prevalent in his mind as he ascended the marble stairs. He was a cripple, he was no warrior, and his only qualification was crawling out of his mother’s womb. 

Leopold pictured the perfect Heir of Tywin. It was a formidable, powerful man who could be cruel and daunting, terrifying and awe-inspiring. He stood tall and straight without help. He could command respect in the battlefield, diplomatic talks, throne room and the bed. Someone with the strength of Hodor, beauty of Jaime, battle brilliance of Robert and wit of Tyrion. Perhaps bringing the animals was a mistake – it showed a weakness; a sense of mercy for living creatures and a family that was not his own. 

“Here are your chambers, Your Highness,” the servant said. Leopold nodded to him gratefully. The man was patient with his slow legs.

“Whose rooms did these belong to before?” When he arrived in Winterfell, he inquired the same question. His rooms were the best of the guest rooms in Winterfell. 

“Ser Jaime, Your Highness,” the servant said. “These are the traditional rooms of the Heir of Casterly Rock.”

Father’s rooms. 

“And where are my mother’s rooms?” 

“The door opposite.” Of course, Leopold thought dourly. “If Your Highness would like to see them, he is welcome. No one resides there.”

“And my uncle Tyrion’s rooms? Are they on this same floor?” 

The servant looked at his shoes, suddenly. “No, my prince. Lord Tyrion’s rooms are several stairs down below. No one lives in them and Your Highness would not like it down there. It’s… not the most pleasant of abodes.” The servant didn’t seem to harbour any more love for the Imp than the Lord did. 

“Thank you. That will be all for now.” The servant bowed and left. 

Leopold would explore Uncle Brain’s ‘unpleasant abode’ later. For now, he had what remained of his parent’s childhood. The history of the people who gave birth to him was within these very walls. Ghosts of memories and shivers of the past that Leopold had no inkling of haunted these stone structures.

Jaime’s chambers were large – it was a proper Heir’s chambers. There was the main bedroom, complete with a king-sized four poster bed. Connecting to the main bedroom, there was what must have been a study, but it had spent the larger part of the last 40 years being an armoury – full of Jaime’s favourite swords and shields. The centre piece was Jaime’s golden armour resting on a mannequin, waiting for its owner to don it again. There was a balcony with the view of the most splendid sunset and the most beautiful city. There was also a wide, comfortable solar. ‘Rooms’ in Casterly Rock was code for ‘luxurious apartments’.

Going North had done a heap of good for the Prince, not least because he grew to appreciate the sun’s warmth, the bright views and the luxury that his inheritance truly presented.

It was difficult to imagine that these rooms were now his. This was his home until he became Lord of Casterly Rock, by which he would move to the Lord’s Chambers. The last time he had a home like this was in King’s Landing, but they were the rooms of the second son. The ones that he had now were exclusive for the firstborn. 

There was another knock on the doors. 

“Come in!” Leopold was just about to sit and rest his legs on the bed, which he had no doubt his parents had utilized for activities other than sleep. 

Two women, half dressed in silks and half-naked to the bone, walked into the room. One was carrying a large wine pitcher and the other some goblets. They had giggles and rouge on their mouths and their hair was tied in unseemly fashions. They were both very pretty and not very modest.

“Your Highness…” one of them, a redhead, smiled. “We just wanted to welcome you to Casterly Rock and offer you some refreshments.” 

Leopold only crooked an eye. If this was the hospitality of Casterly Rock, no wonder his uncle grew to be so notoriously lecherous. Could Tywin really blame his youngest son?

“Uh… thank you, but I must decline.” Leopold cleared his throat to stop the croaking sound. “Thank you for the… offer. I am honoured.”

They really were persistent. “Really, Your Highness? You must be tired from your journey. Just lay back and my sister and I will do the rest. We’ve never lay with a Prince before,   
have we Betsy?” Her sister shook her head, giggling.

Leopold thought about it, as any man in his situation would. If he closed his eyes and imagined Arya’s face, it would be the sweetest experience. A trial run for the wedding night to come, if it ever did with Arya’s obstinacy and discomfort for the topic of love making. Alas, the promise that he made only a fortnight before was fresh on his mind. “Really, ladies. I must decline your generous offer.” Besides, he didn’t reckon that he had the stomach for more guilt or secrets. He had made a promise.

“Would you at least take one cup of wine and drink to Lord Tywin’s health?” She offered the Prince a goblet. He took the goblet and saw how she poured the wine to the other girl as well. Harkening back to texts that he’d read about poison, he quickly swapped the goblets with one of them. They seemed surprised by his mistrust, but he gave no explanation.

“To Lord Tywin’s health.” Leopold toasted and drank deeply. It was a good Arbour red. 

Seeing that he was in the same obstinate mood after the drink as he was before, the two wenches left him to his peace. 

When the wolves and lion cub were brought into his chambers, as he had ordered the master of the hounds to do, Lady settled comfortably in a cot set aside just for her and started to clean the lion cub, but Nymeria sat by the door and stared with eyes of utmost determination. Gods have mercy should those wenches ever returned to her mistress’ mate’s rooms.

[][][][][][][]

Leopold was beginning to feel homesick with all these awkward moments. Dinner was another awkward affair. Present were the Lannisters of Lannisport, a cadet of the main branch, useful for breeding and spares. There was Kevan and Tygett Lannisters, who were Tywin’s brothers, and their wives Dorna and Darlessa, followed by a cousin by the name of Ser Stafford with his children Cerenna, Myrielle and Daven and lastly fat Lady Genna, who was Tywin’s sister. The last presence, hushed away in the corner and not spoken to, was Joy Hill, the bastard daughter of Tywin’s last brother, Gerion, who died at sea.

Leopold had been showered by strangers who knew him, but he knew very little of them. They said how much he looked like Jaime, how much like Cersei – it must have been a twin thing, they said. They shared stories that only family can share of how he was an infant and they visited their niece, the Queen, and saw their three adorable nephews and niece. They remembered how they held the Princes of the Seven Kingdoms in their arms. 

Spotting the smirking looks of his newfound cousins, Leopold blushed brighter than the crimson of his cloaks. Only Joy Hill did not seem to pay him much mind, picking at her food.

“Jaime wrote to your father of the day that he and Tyrion brought you to that wretchedly cold Winterfell,” Lady Dorna explained. “He said you were screaming and begging not to go to the Starks and that you repeatedly slapped Jaime across the cheek.” The woman laughed. “Can you imagine? A little boy slapping proud, golden Ser Jaime and all he can do is take it in.” The other’s laughed and Leopold did with them. He remembered that day. Tyrion had been charged with greeting the Lord of Winterfell and Jaime had been charged with tantrums and slaps from a seven-year-old. It was a sight that let Ned Stark know that this ward would be his favourite.

Tywin seemed to have a distaste for all the fondling. He decided to break the atmosphere.

“You did not agree to the two whores that came to your chamber, then?” Tywin took a sip of wine. His loud, booming voice had quieted even the most annoying of aunts.

“That was your doing?” Leopold shouldn’t have been surprised. This was Tywin’s castle, after all. However, he seemed too… old-fashioned for such things. Then again, whores were the world’s oldest and most famous profession. 

“Yes. I wanted to know what values my Heir held,” Tywin said. Testing if I was as lecherous as Tyrion you mean, Leopold thought and, based on how everyone else fell silent, so did their guests. 

“Did I pass your test, Lord Lannister?” Leopold tread very carefully.

There was the briefest spark of acceptance in Tywin’s eyes and in its brevity, it felt like a golden accomplishment worthy of a hero. Leopold had proved himself capable to some capacity in Tywin’s eyes. “Indeed.” And that was the extent of the praise.

“How do you find Casterly Rock, Leopold?” Lady Genna had begun to soothe the tension that her brother naturally amassed. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

“Magnificent, certainly, Aunt Genna” Leopold picked at his food. “Though I confess that I do not quite feel at home yet. I feel like a passing traveller - A guest.”

His great-aunt smiled, kindly, “I’m sure you will come to feel at home in time. This is only your first day.”

“Yes, and in two days you will be leaving,” Tywin’s harsh voice shushed Genna into submission. That certainly got Leopold’s attention. “I have arranged that you will travel to all the notable houses of the West and meet with their Lords and Heirs. It’s not a customary practise, but, since you’ve been absent from your duties for so long, it would be best that you became acquainted with them quickly.” 

He acts as if I wanted to go to Winterfell. 

“What would I do with them whilst I’m there?” Leopold asked.

“My bannermen will entertain the son of the King. They will set up dinners or hunts and you are to participate in them,” Tywin said, and Leopold’s shoulders grew weaker and weaker. To ride and hunt was an absolute bane for the Prince. If he had to socialise, he preferred fishing. “You will meet all your future bannermen and their heirs and strike up long-lasting acquaintances. It is my hope that you learn something of the men of the West, rather than the North.”

Ser Stafford, though not one to object Tywin, voiced his concern. “Lord Tywin… the boy just arrived. Do you really think…”

“He is my Heir now. He belongs to me. It is my wish that he goes and familiarises himself with the Westerlands. All of the Westerlands.” Tywin’s word was final. His gaze locked with that of his grandson. “And you will not be taking those mutts with you.”

“But—”

“I’ll have the Master of Hounds care for them. I don’t want my bannermen to get the wrong idea of my Heir.”

Leopold resigned. Though he did not like it, he understood why the wolves couldn’t come with him. “That’s a lot of salt and bread to inject in such a short period of time… but as you command me, Lord Lannister,” Leopold held Tywin’s gaze.

The dinner went on for far longer than Leopold would have liked. Family was an awkward affair, he realised, and not just when your brother tramples you with a horse, but even in simple dinner parties and such. 

There was however, one thing digging in the back of Leopold’s mind that was left unresolved – his betrothal. Tywin had not mentioned a word or even a suggestion. Somehow, Leopold expected the man to say something, anything, but the Old Lion gave no indication of knowing about the match. If Leopold wanted to assess the situation and make a solution, he needed to confront the Lord himself, however terrifying the prospect of that encounter would be.

It was funny how he always viewed the men most powerful and most feared. He had always been afraid of Robert, the king and Head of House Baratheon, when he was a boy. Now, he feared Tywin, the Lord of Casterly Rock and the Head of House Lannister. He never feared Jaime, though.

Leopold knocked on the Lord’s chambers hours after the guests had left for their respective manses and strongholds.

Tywin opened his doors, saw his hobbling grandson and welcomed him into his solar. His apartments were much grander than those of Jaime, as was befitting of The Lord’s Chamber. He poured them both a goblet of wine. 

“I assume you have something to tell me,” he said.

“Something to ask,” Leopold summoned his courage. “I am betrothed to Lord Stark’s daughter.”

Tywin seemed to expect this. “So I’ve heard.” He put down his goblet. “I’ve already sent a raven to King’s Landing to sort out this nonsense. I’ll not allow my immediate Heir to be married off for Robert’s perverse virility. He wants to be lawful brothers with Eddard Stark and his family. I will not allow the Starks to have you longer than they already have.”

Leopold was in shock. He had acted too slow. “How… exactly… do you plan to ‘sort it out’?”

“The Crown owes Casterly Rock 3 million gold dragons. Your father’s whoring and drinking expenses are quite extraordinary. If I wanted, I could make Robert dance naked on a table to keep the growing interest rates down.”

“And who would you have me marry?” Leopold challenged. “I assume you don’t really intend for the great Casterly Rock to pass to a cripple. If your children are all useless and your grandchildren are either cripples, psychos or weaklings, maybe… just maybe you’ll be lucky with great grandchildren!”

Tywin remained as upright as a steel rod. “Casterly Rock will pass to you, have no worries. I happen to find you an acceptable Heir to my great house, with a little Western grooming of course.” He sipped his wine, savouring the flavour like a proper lord. “But I have need of another alliance. The Tyrells are one of the richest houses in the Seven Kingdoms – and they have the most natural resources. The Martells have hated our house since the Rebellion and I intend to mend the bridge. Into one of these houses you’ll marry.”

Leopold sat back, considering for a few moments his next move. His grandfather and he were playing a game. For Arya, he had to win. “The Tyrells are a proud house. They value beauty and appearance. That is the charm of the rose. They won’t give their only daughter to a cripple.”

“They will to a Lannister and the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“And the Martells are… notorious for their rights of primogeniture. They value birth order over sex. The Martell’s only daughter is also the Dornish Heiress. While I’m sure they’ll love the chance to wed a Princess to a Prince, the question that remains is whether you want House Lannister to be ruled by a Dornish woman. She’ll wed me, bed me and poison me. Her bastards will rule Casterly Rock after me, not my children.” Leopold also considered another fact. “They’re also famously promiscuous so her bastards may run around bearing Lannister names, which is much worse.” Tywin stared his Heir down, but for once Leopold didn’t shudder under the man’s gaze. Their arm wrestle was at the centre point. He continued. “House Lannister needs the right kind of woman. Fierce, strong, proud and stern. Someone who will obey me and willing to bear me children.” There was one final argument forming in his mind. “There is also the matter of my father. It is perhaps best to play for his best side.”

Tywin seemed amused. “And why is that?”

“Robert is not an accountant. He probably doesn’t even know that he is in debt – he certainly won’t care. He’s a warrior without a war and he’ll welcome war if he has the opportunity. Jon Arryn ruled the kingdom and Jon Arryn is dead. I know Lord Stark. He’s a good lord and he has been successful in keeping his people out of debt, but he is not a businessman. He doesn’t know how to make money, not without good council anyway.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” Tywin assured his grandson. “The king is married to my daughter. They have four children together.”

“A wife that Robert despises. Four children that Robert couldn’t care any less about. Robert has two brothers and many bastards. He doesn’t lack any heirs. Should my father choose to cast aside my mother and her children our whole house will perish. Give him any reason to fight and he will. He’s at that age where he will start a bloody war for fun.”

Tywin was even more amused. “And why should Robert cast aside his legitimate children?” 

He doesn’t know? He doesn’t know about Jaime and Cersei. He thinks I’m Robert’s. He doesn’t know that I’m the truest Lannister that ever lived. How could he not know? If a six-year-old boy could, how couldn’t a sixty-year-old mastermind?

“For fun?”

“You speak like someone who has no children. What you fail to understand is that your children are your legacy. They’re what remains of you when you’re gone. To discard them is to discard everything you’ve ever built in your life.” Tywin looked out of the window. He talked of his children, but he did not seem like a man who them. “Robert has built the foundations of a royal dynasty. He won’t throw it away.”

“I don’t mean to scold or undermine you, my lord. I am but a young boy, so I am simply curious with how you plan to retrieve those three million gold dragons from a man who neither has them or is in any mood of making them.”

Tywin moved dangerously then. He didn’t like this blatant insubordination in his Heir. “Let me teach you one important thing, my grandson. A Lannister always pays his debts. Our mere reputation is enough to make men shudder, do you hear me? Let that be lesson for you.” That didn’t quite answer his question, but Leopold knew better than to test him.  
“I have a debt to the Starks and I must pay it. It was not Robert or Mother or Uncle Jaime or even you who nurtured me after a horse rode over my legs and ruined my life. It was the Starks. They have been my closest allies and warmest companions and I have repaid them nothing. Worse than nothing – I’ve made a void,” Leopold’s mind instantly went to his dishonesty about Bran’s fall. He clenched his eyes shut to banish the thought from his mind. “Debts are not only vengeance. Debts are sometimes what you have to pay… sometimes in something more than gold.”

Tywin noticed something there. “You really love this Stark girl.” It was not a question.

That took Leopold off his train of thought. “What makes you say that?”

Tywin sat down on an ottoman, goblet twirling in his fingers. “I recognise Robert’s stubbornness in you. He started a whole Rebellion for a Stark girl.” The great cogs of his mind were working. “If I don’t do something about this then you will go and behave foolishly and embarrass me and our great house. So, I will offer you a compromise instead.”  
Now this was interesting. “What kind of compromise?”

“You will journey the Westerlands as I have ordered you to do. That is non-negotiable. Then you will go to Highgarden and Sunspear. If you can broker an alliance with the Tyrells and peace with the Martells, without the use of marriage, you can go to King’s Landing and marry your Stark girl and I will recognise her as Lady Lannister.”

“Aha,” was all Leopold could say as he was thinking these terms over. His grandfather was a genius. Why make an enemy when you can have an ally?

“And she had better breed well,” Tywin growled, savouring the last of the wine. “The Lannister great-grandchildren that you promised me better be born and plentifully in number.” 

“It was a wolf that brought me a lion cub from the forest, my lord. It’s an omen from the gods. She will bear my children.”

“I’m glad that you are so optimistic,” Tywin said.

Leopold paused, assessing any loose ends to the agreement. “What about the ravens to King’s Landing? You will need to call them off.” 

Tywin called for a servant, who brought the Maester and before Leopold’s own eyes the old scholar wrote the letter and sent the raven out from Tywin’s window. 

As he hobbled to his own chambers, Leopold let out of victorious whoop. He had bent the lion’s neck to his will. He had his bride. Now all he had to do was earn her. 

Oh Arya. Why can’t anything be simple with you?

[][][][][][][]

It would be a mistake to think that the progress of the Westerlands was a waste of time. For one thing, Leopold discovered how much he loved travelling. Riding horses was not the most fun activity for the Prince but meeting the people of his future lands made up for it. He laughed, ate, cursed and sang with them. He had made some extraordinary acquaintances.

The first journey was to House Prester of Feastfires.

Lord? Garrison Prester. Words? Tireless. Sigil? A red ox on an ermine field. 

When he was young, younger than Bran, Leopold had his brain engraved with all the notable houses of the West. “It was not proper if the Heir didn’t know who his future bannermen were,” were Lady Stark’s words. Leopold memorized the West, Robb memorized the North and Theon revised the Iron Islands.

Before he left the city of Lannisport, Leopold bought gifts for his hosts. For Lord Garrison he bought twelve red oxen from the markets. Their owner had been a fool who needed the gold for wine and whores and quickly, so he sold the oxen so cheaply that it might as well have been theft. Leopold thought it was a thoughtful gift for a man who he did not know – the gift of his proud sigil.

He arrived at the shores of Feastfires, ate the bread and salt, and drank the wine of Lord Garrison. Then he presented the oxen as gratitude for hospitality. The lord laughed, clapped the Prince’s back and welcomed his liege’s Heir with what could only be Western hospitality. It was this good-humoured lord that suggested Leopold should be nicknamed the ‘Laughing Lion’.

One thing that Leopold learnt about the West was that it was small, at least in comparison to The North. In the North, to reach another man’s lands might have taken a week. In the West, a day or two’s ride would suffice. 

Next was House Plumm of Trefot. One Lord? Philip Plumm. Words? Come Try Me. Sigil? Three plums on a field of yellow. For his gift, Leopold was unable to find any plums in the markets of Lannisport, bizarrely and instead bought dozens of red summer apples. Though the lord did not appreciate the joke, his son did.

“You’re a funny one,” said Dennis, the Heir of Trefot, as he munched down on one of his father’s gifts. The two boys had huddled around a warm fire awaiting the morning when Leopold would be back on his long journey. Dennis, like Leopold, was a grotesque - a hunchback. His shoulders and spine sagged as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Perhaps that was why he had the sense of humour that his straight and fine of limb father seemed to lack. “I didn’t know Lannisters could laugh. They say Tywin Lannister smiled only once in his life – on his wedding day.”

Leopold nodded profoundly, as if finally understanding his new-found grandfather. “That would explain a lot of things.” Suckling on the last of the apple core, Leopold threw it into the crackling fire. “Tell me… how does House Plumm make its income? There are no gold or silver mines in your lands. Fishing is House Farman’s unique privilege. What do you live on other than my apples?”

“Like every other Lord who has an embarrassingly obscure banner. Plums are very favourable in this climate. Plums, figs, cherries, oranges. However, the Reach lords produce more and sweeter produce, so we’re always undersold.”

“I see.” Leopold thought deeply. He left the next morning with the promise to Dennis to exchange ravens and letters.

The next on his map was House Stackspeare of Elsinore. Lord Selmond and his two sons, Steffon and Alyn, greeted Leopold and invited him for a hunt on the morrow. Leopold tried to warn them that he would make a horrible hunter, but the Stackspeares would have none of it. They armed the cripple with horse, spears and horn, and the party departed into the woods with huntsmen and hounds.

In matters that required physical strength, Leopold lingered at the back of any party. He spoke with the second Stackspeare son, Alyn, while the lord and heir rode ahead. Alyn was a young man, older than Leopold and more sombre than Jon Snow. As the two talked, Leopold discovered that the young man was a good talker and a jealous brother, as all second sons must be. He lusted after his brother’s inheritance and wife, Gertrude, who was heavy with child.

As the party rode through the woods, the Stackspeare heir downed a bull, but with kind courtesy befitting a lord, invited the Lannister heir to make the prized kill. Leopold declined, saying that it was not his reward, but Stackspeares more stubborn than the creatures that they killed and so Leopold had no choice. With a sigh, Leopold plunged his spearpoint into the dying beast. 

Leopold’s next hosts were the Sarsfields and, like the Stackspeares with whom they shared the rights of the same forest, were insistent of the Prince’s attendance of hunts. Leopold gave his host a gift of green arrows, another nod to the houses’ sigil – a green arrow on a white bend in a green field – and they in return shoved their own bow and arrows into Leopold’s hands for the hunt. They seemed disappointed when the Prince told them he was useless in horsemanship, archery or spearing, but the hosts had no other way to entertain their guest, so he had no choice but to accept their courtesy.

The catch of the day – a golden hind – was the work of the Sarsfield Lord, Patryck Sarsfield. He gifted his Prince and future liege lord with the golden hind’s hide. Leopold accepted with gratitude.

It was beginning to be embarrassing for Leopold to be treated like some invalid – he hated the pity. Hosts were never required to give gifts to their guests or allow them to make the killing blows for them. In highborn etiquette, guests brought their hosts gifts, like an unofficial payment for their Lord’s guest right. However, what could be done? Leopold couldn’t hunt, ride well or loose arrows. He was an invalid. He began to despise forests and hunting.

He was glad to learn that the next journey was House Marbrand of Ashemark. There were no forests in Ashemark.

He was greeted by the Marbrand Heir, Addam. Apparently, he was one of Tywin’s most daring commanders. He was a man of forty years old and the effective lord of Ashemark, while his father fought off the smallpox that claimed him. 

While they stood in the courtyard of the Marbrand’s stronghold, a serpent had slithered its way to the men. Camouflaged by the mud of the ground, the black serpent was sure of its prey.

Leopold, who regularly kept his eyes on his feet, saw the movement in the mud and the slightest glint of a serpent’s eye. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the torches of his men and purged the slimy shape. Burnt, with its thermal receptors scalded, the serpent slithered away, but with little luck, for Marbrand guardsmen speared the creature before it could make a lucky escape.

“You have my thanks, my prince,” the Marbrand Heir told the Prince. “I owe you my life, one could say. If it hadn’t been for you, I would be drowning in poison.” 

Leopold, who was looking at the carcass of the snake, concurred. He ordered his men to place it in his safe keeping – its poisons could be fascinating. “This is indeed a venomous beast and I thank you for your thanks. A simple swearing of fealty when the time comes for me to become Lord Paramount would suffice, my lord.” Marbrand chuckled and promised to do so in the future, as his family had done for generations.

It was at Ashemark that a letter from Tywin arrived. The Lord of Casterly Rock was furious that Leopold had inspired the nickname – The Laughing Lion – amongst his nobles. That name once belonged to Tytos Lannister, Tywin’s father, the lord that nearly ruined their House. Leopold winced as he read the strongly-worded letter to its completion. His grandfather commanded him to stop the japes, the laughter and the mockery. The lion was a creature that was feared, not laughed at. 

He was beginning to suffocate in his grandfather’s harsh and proud expectations.

He was half way through his tiresome journey. There were only six more houses that his grandfather requested to visit. House Lefford of the Golden Tooth was next. 

Lord Leo and his daughter Lady Alysanne offered them very different welcomes. Lord Leo was all coldness, permitting only the polite manners for his liege’s grandson. Perhaps he was insulted that Leopold, a presumed namesake, was not much to look at. Lady Alysanne was warm and kind and 16 years old. She blushed deep red when the Prince smiled at her in gratitude. She was not the world’s prettiest girl, somehow possessing the aura of a very old woman despite her youthful age, but every maid blushed when a Prince rode into her gates.

During dinner, after Leopold presented his host with gifts of freshly forged weapons and swords from Lannisports’ blacksmiths, Lady Alysanne gave her own gift to her father’s guest. She presented him with a man’s belt – apparently one of her own making. 

“Many thanks, Lady Alysanne, the craftmanship is stunning,” he grinned. To show his thanks, he put the belt on straight away. 

The Lord Lefford mistook Leopold’s appreciation for flirtation. His voice grumbled from his high seat. “My prince, do you intend to stay at the Golden Tooth for long?” Old Leo must have thought the Young Leo had come to steal the She-Leo. His question was loaded with polite rudeness.

“No, my lord. I am to ride for Hornvale.”

“It is a long ride.”

“Indeed, it is.”

“It would be prudent to start your journey immediately.”

“I couldn’t agree more. After dinner, I will saddle my horse.” Leopold had no desire for a quarrel where there was no need for one. The Golden Tooth proved to be his shortest visit yet – four hours in total. Neither Leopold’s horse nor his men thanked him for it.

House Brax’ sigil was a purple unicorn on a field of silver. Mythical though their animal was, they took great pride in their rearing of mares and, despite Leopold’s reluctance, invited the Prince to look at them.

“Man-eating beasts,” Leopold hissed under his breath after Tytos Brax, the heir, asked what he thought of horses. Tytos only laughed at the absurdity of the Prince’s description. Mares didn’t eat men.

The third son of the lord, Flement, who dawdled in the shadows, outshined by his two older brothers, accidentally scared one of the horses. As it reared at him and various Braxian men ran to the boy to save him from the terrified stallion, a memory flashed before the eyes of the Prince… a memory that was too painful for him to voice.

Lord Andros gripped his thirdborn son by the ear and dragged him for all the stable-boys to see his shame. He screamed at his son for the embarrassment that was caused, ironically amassing more by his screaming, and the punishment that Flement would endure. Quite frankly, the fearsome horses’ hooves flailing in the air like war-hammers were enough punishment, in Leopold’s opinion.

The next stop was one that Leopold had awaited eagerly. The Falwells of Foolfort had the most amusing sigil in the Seven Kingdom’s – a fool dressed in gold and red motley danced and juggled three suns on a field of black. Their words were “Who is the fool?”. 

However, when he arrived, he was met with catastrophe. Foolfort was fighting a battle with the sewage pipes. Apparently, they had clogged and burst mere hours before the arrival of the Prince and hundreds of years’ worth of sewage was spilling in everywhere. Stable boys and cooks, farmers and butchers, jesters and soldiers all ran around with buckets trying to contain the piles of shit from oozing out.

The Heir of Foolfort, Faxwyl Falwell, ran up to the Prince’s horse. He wasn’t so profusely covered in the mess, but he certainly wasn’t the cleanest lord in the Seven Kingdoms. “I am so sorry, my prince.” He blushed red with the embarrassment that was his house. “As you can see, we are experiencing some difficulties.”

“I see, my lord,” Leopold said, thinking of how best to stop this young man’s embarrassment. “Would you like the aid of my men? I’m sorry that they are in such small number.”

“Any help would be appreciated, Your Highness,” the Heir smiled gratefully and bowed his head gently. It was incredible how pompous proud lords could drop their facades when faced with a genuine crisis and experiencing an embarrassing kind of hardship in their own home. 

Later, Leopold suggested that, instead of containing the oozing crap and burst plumbing pipes, they should let it all flow out and wash everything out with water once the brown flood stopped. In the evening, the whole castle feasted on the castle reserves by campfires. Two days after leaving Foolfort, Leopold received a letter from Faxwyl that his suggestion worked, and the castle was being rebuilt. Faxwyl proved to be a man of good humour. His letter ended with the posts script “I suppose my house were the fools this time.”

Of course, this was not the only letter that Leopold received. Closely followed from Faxwyl’s letter was Tywin’s and perhaps it was obvious that the proud lord, who had probably never witnessed a literal flood of shit, was not pleased by his grandson’s lack of dignity in the exodus. Strong words were spat upon the pages in furious writing. Fragile pages were crumpled in angry fists and tossed into crackling fires. 

He had three more houses to visit: Swyft, Crakehall and Clegane.

The Prince’s visit to Cornfield, the seat of House Swyft, involved a lot less faecal mass. A simple family with a simple dinner was all Leopold wanted after Foolfort – and he got it. Lord Harys Swyft was a greying man and his brood of roosters were of varying years; the oldest being in his mid-twenties and the youngest being a small toddler who crawled up to Leopold during dinner with a pair of castanets. With a smile, Leopold bent down to the little toddler, accepted the gift of castanets and clapped them, which seemed to amuse the child to no end. Leopold left Cornfield with no negative feelings.

The Crakehalls of Crakehall were perhaps the most captivating family that he visited. The heir, Tybolt Crakehall, had as much taste for hunting as Leopold did. He stayed and talked with the Prince until one of his younger, more athletic brothers caught a huge boar and invited their guest to make the killing blow. When the party returned to the castle, Tybolt invited the Prince to view his study, which was home to some of the most beautiful art pieces that Leopold had ever witnessed. Landscapes, figures, compositions all impressed the prince who loved the combination of intellect and beauty above much else.

“It’s beautiful,” Leopold marvelled one of the oil reliefs of a young girl.

She had dark golden hair, honesty and warmth in her chocolate eyes, and sweetness in the curve of her lips. She had the aura of a woman older than her years, but without a doubt she was young. The red dress that she wore was vibrant, but her face, simple as it was, was more intriguing than the piece of fabric. There was something simple and truthful about her that drew the eye. “Who is she?” Leopold asked Tybolt. He had a distinct feeling that he somehow knew this girl.

“My muse,” Tybolt waved, dismissively. “The only daughter of the Lord of Beesbury. She was once a ward of my father’s.”

“Are you to wed her?” Leopold inquired.

“No. Her father drove her mad. Her mother couldn’t protect her. Her betrothed died before she could meet him. She boarded a boat, sailed west and was never heard from again. She is likely dead.”

“And you want to immortalise her.”

Tybolt shrugged his shoulders. “Still learning.”

Later, Leopold shared with the Heir of Crakehall his first ideas of a device that could project images found in the light into a dark room. It would, theoretically, be easier to sketch things if it was projected onto the canvas. As a promise of the continuation of a long and beneficial friendship, Leopold entrusted the plans to Tybolt, who in addition to completing the idea, also promised to send to Casterly Rock a portrait of the Prince.

It had been the first time that Leopold shared a fragment of his brilliance with any one, but he felt that Tybolt was his equal in unrecognised intellect, athletic abilities, sense of humour, station, and, strangely, age – they discovered that they were born on the same day. 

They separated with the promise to exchange ravens and letters.

The final location of the wretched journey was Clegane’s Keep – Leopold’s most fearful journey. Gregor Clegane was famed for being one of the most ruthless men in the Seven Kingdoms and Tywin Lannister had specified that it was mandatory for Leopold to visit the Mountain Who Rides. Even in Winterfell, Leopold was told by Lord Stark about this man’s cruelty and, before Winterfell, Leopold had seen the Hound’s burnt face as proof of it.

Gregor Clegane stood eight feet tall. That alone was enough reason for the brittle, crippled boy to shit himself. He was clad in armour, with a sword as tall as Leopold himself by his side and he wore a scowl of utmost displeasure. The Mountain Who Rides had no time to entertain little bratty boys who suckled their mother’s breasts until manhood.  
The Prince dismounted his horse and faced the awkward silence of this terrifying lord. “Lord Clegane has my thanks for the welcome,” Leopold inclined his head.

“Prince,” Clegane growled and offered the same inclination of his head, though you wouldn’t see with the thick neck that his head rested on. “The hospitality of Clegane’s Keep is yours. You will join me for dinner.” He waved a hand and a servant crawled up to his side in utter fear. “My man will show you to your rooms.”

“Thank you, my lord.” 

Like Tywin, Clegane saw nothing but weakness in Leopold’s legs. How could Leopold command the respect of one of his house’s most valued warriors if he himself was not a warrior? Then again, Tywin was hardly a warrior anymore, but he had the benefit of a famous reputation. Leopold’s reputation was being trampled by horses. No… he could not be like his grandfather. He had to find another way to win the loyalty of this man.

To show strength, one had to subdue the strong. To show intelligence, one had to outwit the intelligent. To show weakness, one had to embarrass themselves to the mercy of pity.   
Dinner was awkward. Clegane ate like a savage dog. Leopold was almost surprised that the food was cooked – Clegane would be perfectly comfortable with raw meat.

“Does his lordship intend to travel to King’s Landing for the Tourney of the Hand?” Leopold asked, casually. 

“Yes.” Clegane growled. There was neither cunning, nor intelligence in the man. He was as blunt, dumb and cruel as he was fabled to be. It was hard to make conversation with a man that didn’t want to speak. 

“That reminds me of my gift for you, Lord Clegane,” Leopold whistled for his servant to bring the gift from Lannisport. A huge great sword was brought in a leather pouch. It was fashioned out of black steel – the finest castle-forged steel in Lannisport – with a three-headed dog as the pommel. It was said to be a great and deadly beauty. “I was told that you are a man of violence.”

Clegane stood from his seat and approached the gift, unsheathing it from the leather pouch. He studied it for a while, swung it a few times and then looked at the Prince. “Who do I have to kill?” 

Leopold was impressed by this man’s swiftness for violence and obedience. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of someone. Does my lord like the gift?” Gregor looked the sword up and down again. He gruffly nodded. 

Perhaps swords were mightier than pens in winning the appeasement of violent men. 

The three-headed dog that guarded the gates of the West truly belonged to the whole Lannister family.

[][][][][][][]

At the gates of Highgarden, Leopold was greeted by the youngest Tyrell son – the Knight of the Flowers. He was offered bread and salt the moment he dismounted.   
“Highgarden is yours, Prince Leopold,” Loras smiled politely. “My family is so very eager to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Leopold nodded and allowed the pretty man to lead him into the main hall of Highgarden. He hobbled behind on his crutches. “Tell me, which members of your family will I be meeting?”

“Well, there will be my father, Lord Mace, my sister, Lady Margaery and my two brothers, Lord Willas and Ser Garlan and my grandmother, the Lady Olenna,” said Loras. 

“And, if I may be so blunt, ser, which of your relatives should I speak to about alliances and trade? Your father, I presume?” Leopold knew from his freshly forged experiences that the Lord of the House was not necessarily the head of the family. 

“You may try, but my father has little interest in actual governance of the Reach,” Loras laughed and Leopold nodded politely. “My brother Willas, the heir, is the one you want. He is more adept to dealing with the business of lordship. Speaking of which, here he is.”

In the Main Hall, he was greeted by a young man whose hair was the colour of honey and who lumbered when he walked, which he did with a walking stick. He had tawny eyes and he wore velvets and silks of gold and green. The walking stick was made of the finest ivory bone and engraved with the thorns of a rose. He looked like a decent man. There was a brace clasped around his leg.

“Your Highness, may I present Lord Willas,” Loras said and politely departed, leaving the two heirs alone together. 

“Lord Willas,” Leopold inclined his head.

“Prince Leopold. We were not expecting you so soon,” Willas walked up to the Prince, a task that was as slow for him as it was for Leopold. 

“I was pleasantly surprised. The roads of your region are surprisingly smooth.”

“Well… a severe emphasis on agriculture would do that to any region,” Willas said as he gave the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms a satisfactory low bow.

“Well, I suggest that we get on with the details of the arrangement, Your Highness. I would prefer to do it before dinner with my family. The evening promises to be eventful. The Queen of Thorns has decided to grace us with her presence.”

Leopold would have rather rested from the long journey – he had ridden for five days straight to get to the heart of the Reach. He wasn’t going to be at his best. “As you wish, my lord. However, before we start, can I say how much I admire your walking stick. Is it real ivory?”

Willas was surprised by the interest from his guest. “Uh… why yes indeed. Ivory from the Summer Isles. An unfortunate tourney accident rendered my leg badly injured.” He looked at the Prince’s own uncomfortable boots and the bulky crutches under each armpit. “And you, Your Highness? I’ve heard rumours… but…”

“Yes,” Leopold looked down at his boots, articles of clothing that he despised above all others. “Like you… an unfortunate accident involving horses.” He cleared his throat, discomforted. “Shall we proceed?”

Willas took a seat at the head of the table and poured a goblet of wine for each them. 

Inter-regional trades and alliances were tricky businesses. The premise was something along the lines of the first house would trade something abundant and necessary to the other house and vice versa. For House Lannister, they needed the Reach’s bountiful crops. For House Tyrell, they needed the Westerlands’ mine resources – ore, iron, coal. When trading on a scale as large as the one the two men were discussing – a scale that would include both coin and wartime allegiance – such negotiations would result in marriage, or at least an engagement, to assure the sincerity of the deal, which was where Leopold currently discovered himself to be.

“That is the traditional way that unions are made. I have a sister who is 14 years old and needs to be wed,” Willas insisted.

“My father, the king, has promised me to Lord Stark’s daughter. I owe the Starks a debt. I cannot, unfortunately, marry your sister.”

Willas sat back in his seat. “A pity, but I know how Lannisters are with debts. What do you propose instead, Your Highness? You are beholden to House Lannister, not Baratheon. You can’t promise for my House either of your younger siblings. Distant cousins that you may have in Lannisport will not be sufficient enough. I want my sister to have a good match and your grandfather and uncle are… too old for her.” Tyrion is short, not old, thought Leopold, but dismissed the hint from the roselord. 

“My lord, you and I are young men born in an old world. Do we really require marriage to seal our agreements? I don’t think we do. Here is my proposal to seal the agreement,” he took out a parchment from the pockets of his cloak and gave it to the roselord to read. “All we need to do to make sure that our agreement is kept is to have a common interest in keeping it.”

“This involves a lot of money,” Willas regarded with a sceptical eye reviewing the parchment.

“No more than a proper Royal Wedding and, unlike a marriage, you will receive your money back. It’s a deposit into the Iron Bank of 2,000,000 gold dragons. If one of us breaks the agreement, they will lose their dragons to the other – with a small compensation to the Iron Bank as gratitude. The money will marinate in the Iron Bank for two years, by which point we can meet again and discuss from there.”

Willas looked over the agreement in his hands for some time. “It’s an elegant idea.”

“Indeed.”

Willas’ tawny eyes met the emerald ones of the Prince in a moment of sincerity. “You’re a revolutionary.” It was not a question. “I admire revolutionaries. They’re innovative, bright and brave, but they rarely, if ever, receive happy endings… at least within their lifetimes.”

Leopold smirked. “None of us have happy endings. We all die in the end, don’t we?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Willas looked at the parchment in his hand. “I like this idea. I really do, but my family won’t. They expect a marriage. They’re more… traditional.”  
The Prince’s shoulders shrugged. “Well… those are my terms. Please consider them. I would look forward to do business with you.” The Prince stood up, as if the negotiations were over, and asked to be brought to his rooms. Willas rang for a servant, but himself continued to sit in his chair and mull over the interesting terms that the Prince brought to him.   
Willas Tyrell liked the boy. He was a true innovator. He was also lucky enough to be born into the Royal Family. There was no doubt in the roselord’s mind that Leopold Lannister was the best match his sister could ever ask for, and the Tyrells were one of the best marriage options for the Prince himself, if only the Stark girl could be brought out of the picture. 

He needed to consult with a wiser head than his about this. His grandmother was in her solar.

“Don’t bore me with the particulars of the deal. Just tell me if it is a yes or a no from the Prince.” Olenna bathed in the sunlight of the Reach in her balcony with a goblet of Arbour wine and some figs by her side. She didn’t grace her grandson with even a look.

“I need some advice. He’s engaged. To Lord Stark’s daughter,” Willas said, taking a seat beside the old woman. “And he refuses to budge from it. He called it his debt.”

“Either the Starks raised him to be honourable in his promises or he’s lustful,” Olenna snapped, sucking the flesh and blood from the fig. “What did he propose for the settlement?”

“Our prince is a clever man. He proposed this,” Willas gave the parchment to his grandmother who waved it away.

“I don’t want to read that tedious drag. Tell me what it says instead.” Willas related the details of economics and finances to the little woman. “Clever, very clever. It’s nothing new to economics, but the lords of Westeros have certainly forgotten this method. This principle has been used in Bravos for centuries. Marriage is simply more… simple. 2,000,000 gold dragons are approximately the total worth of the venture and then there’s the chance of inheriting the neighbour’s gold to sweeten the deal. Tywin has himself a clever heir, finally.”

“Do you think I should agree and bring our house into an alliance with a house that refuses to pay with tradition?” 

“What you fail to see, grandson, is the bigger picture of this alliance. There are rumours that the Crown Prince is mad, unhinged. Mad kings inspire rebellions. Our guest prince is next in line to the throne after his brother and if he’s as smart as this piece of paper then he’ll try to win his brother’s crown.”

“I saw his legs,” Willas lowered his gaze. “He’s a cripple, just like me. And he said the rumours were true. He despises his brother.”

Olenna chuckled. “Ha! What do you think will happen when Joffrey becomes King and Leopold becomes Lord of Casterly Rock? War will happen, and it will not do for us to side with the wrong side. House Tyrell had done that once, during Robert’s Rebellion. It should not repeat the same mistake again.”

“But which is the right side, grandmother?”

Olenna turned to him. “The one with the saner head.”

Needless to say, Leopold had secured the Tyrells for Tywin.

[][][][][][][]

Had Leopold not been smitten by a northern she-wolf, he would have found Margaery Tyrell a comely girl. She wore the bare minimum amount of clothes without trespassing the border of propriety. The earnest smile that lit up on her face the moment her doe eyes saw him was enough to make any man’s heart melt. She was a devious credit to her house. Alas, Leopold paid her only a polite level of attention.

“Your Highness,” she curtsied low, accenting the low-neck line of her dress. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Leopold nodded and smiled, though he made no effort to keep his eyes on her form. His thoughts were elsewhere – with direwolves, needle pricks and violent tempers. He had worked too hard for the prize that he wanted to be tempted by a low-cut dress.

She seemed to sense that he was not interested, and he was very grateful for her lack of persistency. It was one of the first qualities that he found admirable in her character.

“So… you’re going to Sunspear?” Willas Tyrell asked after dinner was over. His father and grandmother had retired and there was only Leopold, Willas, Garlan, Margaery and Loras left to enjoy the crackling of the fire with some good Arbour wine.

“Indeed. Then, I’ll be on my way to King’s Landing for my wedding,” said Leopold, grinning. The thought that it was only a matter of time before he’d be bonded with the girl that he loved was a recurring one. “As I understand it, Oberyn Martell was your opponent in your tourney?”

“Yes… but I do not hold it against him. Oberyn and I have exchanged letters. He and I are very good friends.”

Leopold was thoroughly confused. “Doesn’t House Tyrell and House Martell have a long-standing feud?”

Garlan Tyrell, nicknamed the Gallant, laughed. “Exactly, Your Highness, you’ve hit the nail on the head. The feud is the result of my brother’s unfortunate tourney.” He turned to glare on his brother. “My brother is, ironically, the only Tyrell that doesn’t feud with the Martells.”

“Then why doesn’t the feud end?” Leopold asked. 

“Pride and family honour,” Willas said with the roll of his eyes. “My father is a proud man and my family is vengeful. Crippling heirs is a business not easily forgotten by the family. It’s a shame that the same cannot be said for the parties involved.” 

Leopold felt that this was his moment to shine. “You’re lucky then – the Reach remembers. In my family, everyone somehow manages to overlook my assailant. The Reach remembers, but King’s Landing forgets.” He drank more wine. “So, what is the Red Viper of Dorne like?”

“Absolutely mad,” Willas answered instantly. “And absolutely brilliant.” The Heir of Highgarden promptly launched in a series of anecdotes and tales of the man who the whole kingdom believed to be half mad. By the end of his description he fell silent for a moment and then turned to the golden Prince. “Prince Leopold, would you object to some company on the road to Sunspear?”

Loras and Garlan protested before Leopold could respond. “Brother, you’re insane!” Garlan roared.

“The Martells hate us—” Loras intruded.

“Even if you’re close friends with the Prince of Dorne, that does not mean that you’d be safe in his country—”

“Reachmen and Dornishman have always despised each other—”

“Well I think Willas is old enough to make his own decisions.” Margaery interrupted her two brothers, playfully and diplomatically. They both fell silent and looked at her with queer expressions. Leopold took note of that and smirked at her – another admirable quality. 

“I’d be honoured,” Leopold gave his answer, “assuming your family doesn’t chain you to Highgarden’s rose statues.”

“That is an excellent idea, Your Highness,” Garlan said, as if considering the proposition seriously.

“Who is going to be acting Lord if you’re in Dorne? What business do you have in Dorne anyway?”

“Father is lord of Highgarden and Grandmother is here to ensure nothing falls to hell, but acting lord duties will fall onto you, brother dearest,” Willas smiled cruelly, as his brother, Garlan, showed his displeasure at the role assigned to him. “I’d like to see my old friend again… and perhaps find a potential in smoothing this stupid family feud?” The Tyrell heir caught the Prince’s eye with a mischievous glint. Perhaps the Prince had inspired in him the taste of political friendship, rather than the banal secret ravens.

“I would enjoy the company on the road, Lord Willas.” Leopold paused. “God knows I’d need a friend in Dorne.”

[][][][][][][]

They arrived at Sunspear by ship. Sailing was yet another wonder that Leopold had never previously fully appreciated. A gently rocking ship floating, as if by magic, on the azure blue and catching the sights of the glistening dolphins beat the terror of horses any day.

Prince Oberyn greeted his old friend Willas with warmth and pleasure and then he turned to the Lannister Prince.

“Prince Leopold,” Oberyn regarded the Lannister with suspicious eyes. The boy instantly knew that this man despised his family, though the fact was common across the entire Kingdom. His niece and nephew were, after all, wrapped in Lannister crimson after they were botched in the Sack of King’s Landing.

“Your Highness, Prince Oberyn. It is an honour to finally meet with you,” Leopold gave the man his most charming smile. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Oh, did you?” The viper’s tongue was deadly. “From the roselord no doubt?” Snake eyes flickered to the rose.

“Not just. Your reputation is famous even in the North.” 

Oberyn smirked. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you. You’re a boy, after all.” It was meant as a slight. The Lannister was the youngest in the party, only 15, while the Tyrell was 22 and the Martell was in the grey years of his forties. He may have been a lion, but in this pit of thorns and fangs he was a new-born cub.

Leopold decided to smirk. “Would my reputation be more famous if I was a girl?”

There was a pause before the tense air broke with Oberyn’s laughter. Lord Prester of Feastfires had been correct – the Laughing Lion was an apt name for the young Prince.

“You brought me a funny Lannister, Willas. Never thought I’d see the day,” Oberyn slapped Willas’ back and moved to embrace the Prince with the warmth that a guest deserved. A simple joke had won Leopold the respect of this madman. “Welcome to Sunspear, Your Highness. My brother and his daughter, Arianne, are to discuss terms with you. They are waiting for us in the Main Hall.”

“Arianna is your brother’s Heir, am I correct?” Leopold worked through his memory of Martell family trees. Oberyn affirmed him. In a different world where Tywin ruled, and Leopold possessed no lust or desire or backbone, the girl would have been his wife. Leopold’s spine shivered at the prospect.

Her copper skin, almond shaped eyes and thick lush hair made her a Dornish beauty. Leopold was noticing the similarities in Southern beauties, namely the mischievous and flirtatious nature. The hot climate allowed them to be liberal with their dress cuts. The habit of flirtation gave them enticing smirks and lusty eyes, ones that could drive any man mad with fervour. Any man who did not already love another.

The girl and her father sat with Leopold for a solid two hours. It was the girl that was making everything difficult. Doran Martell was a peacemaker and negotiations were easy. Like Willas, Doran liked the Bravosi banking technique that Leopold proposed. Arianne… less so. The devious little snake was hunting for a marriage. Leopold made his engagement very clear several times throughout the meeting. Eventually, Doran agreed, though his daughter grumbled.

It was left to Oberyn to entertain the Prince until Willas was finished. “So… you will be riding to the capital when Lord Willas is done?” There was a mad glint in his eye that made Leopold feel deeply uncomfortable.

“Indeed. I have a wedding to get to. My bride… I’m sure, hope at least… has been preparing, or at least her family will have. Or at the very least my family would be, I hope.” Leopold was deeply unsure of what the progress was. Yes, he’d sent a letter of explanation to Arya and a letter of instructions to his mother, but he had not been able to receive any replies, being constantly on the move.

“You do not seem very confident, Your Highness,” Oberyn laughed. 

“No… my bride is feisty and strong-willed. She is not one to enjoy being shackled to me.”

The Prince of Dorne gave the Prince of the other Kingdoms a knowing smirk. “Then breaking her is part of the fun, no?” He laughed, and Leopold had to admit that some part of Oberyn’s words rang true. “Would his Highness mind if I accompanied you to the capital?” 

That startled Leopold. “Why would you want to surrender the beauty of Dorne for the stench of King’s Landing?”

Oberyn shrugged. “I’m a traveller. I like to travel and though I have been to the capital before I would be honoured to be a guest at your wedding.” The Prince of Dorne had just shamelessly invited himself to another man’s wedding.

“It would be a pleasure to host you, Prince Oberyn.” Leopold inclined his head, politely. 

“I do hope that your wedding doesn’t end in a similar manner to the last one that I was invited to in the capital. My sister Elia and, ah, another prince… Rhaegar Targaryen. Of course, we all know how that marriage ended, don’t we, Lannister?”

Leopold suddenly felt very cold in southern Dorne.


	4. Cold Feet

The chambers of the second son of the King did not belong to the Leopold she knew, Arya realised. She had gone exploring and her betrothal’s old rooms seemed like a good place to start. Not least because, in a matter of weeks, they would also become her own chambers. 

There were swords, spears and knives stacked on to racks in an armoury, confirming Arya’s previous suspicions that Leopold could have been and indeed wanted to be a great warrior. The walls were lined with several mirrors – more so than Sansa’s chambers did. His wardrobe, which creaked open, was stuffed with gold and black liveries embroidered with crowned stags and smelled of innocent washed children. What she noticed more was that which there was an absence of. There were no books or inks or random parchments of papers. There were no wolffish or lion insignia. There were no plans or maps or needlepoint utensils. Even his bed, which was always soft and plush when she landed on it, was as stiff as a rock and the pillows, which she had hit been hit with or used as her own weapon, were heavy and stiff enough to break a nose on.

They were very different boys, she reflected, and her mind wandered to that distant day when a golden carriage rode through the gates of Winterfell. He had been the most rotten spoilt brat that she had ever met.

The entire household had come out to welcome Lord Stark’s new ward, the King’s son. She remembered that everyone had made such a big deal out of him and she honestly couldn’t see why. There was hardly anything special about him. He was just a boy; a crippled royal boy but still a boy.

He wore a scowl and when Jaime Lannister tried to pry him out of the carriage, he slapped the Kingslayer right hard across the cheek. Arya remembered looking to the approving smile on her father’s face. The Imp, seeing the violent emotion of his nephew, decided to take matters into his own hands and marched up to Lord Stark to offer greetings. His efforts were drowned out by the yells of the Prince in the distance. The dwarf said that his nephew was in shock of being crippled.

She remembered the first greeting that she gave him. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Highness,” she said, with practised, if forced, politeness. 

She’d never forget the look that he gave her. Utter revulsion and disinterest never had a better agent than a Lannister. “Thank you,” he spoke to her like he’d speak to dirt. It made her want to cry.

Arya remembered how everyone doted on the poor little Prince. Such an unfortunate accident! Father was gentle with him. Mother smothered him. Robb discussed manly Heir things with him and Sansa asked him about the splendour of the South. Bran and Rickon were too young to bother. Only Arya had saw through him. The bloody ponce was not in shock… he was basking in the attention that her family was pouring on him by the barrel. 

What a spoilt rotten brat he was, she thought and made her opinion clear to him. 

One dinner, when he asked her to pass the salt with that look of disdain, fully aware of how he grit her nerves, she acted. It was not a particularly difficult task, but the way that he said it, as if it was her duty rather than a favour, made something inside her explode. She clenched box in her hand, threw off the lid and doused the insufferable brat with millions of salt crystals. Apparently, his eyes burnt for several days afterward.

Needless to say, she received the longest and most painful punishment that she had had previously or since. 

However, her friends, who happened to be the sons of blacksmiths and guardsmen, began to report to her that the Prince was markedly different… less spoilt. She had to admit that they were right. He no longer trampled on her parent’s affections or demanded expensive extravagances like berries from Pentos or silks from Lys. He began to treat the lowliest servant as a living fellow and the highest lord as a lord, rather than a subject. He had put aside his dreams of becoming a warrior in favour of becoming a diligent scholar. 

He had become a noble lion and had cast aside the reckless young stag. Boys were strange creatures, Arya had then decided.

Most noticeable, however, his attitudes towards her had changed. Whereas previously he looked at her with disdain, he began to give her that cattish grin whenever he saw her. He teased her in that harmless but irritating boyish way and pulled her ponytails at every presentable opportunity. He made humorous nicknames that she then had the pleasure of replicating for him. He would stick his tongue out at her when no one was looking and bask in pleasure when someone caught her doing the same, but then convinced the accuser of the shared blame.

“Idiotic, eye-offending, foul fleabag, get out of my sight.” She screamed at him, at some point. She had taken the liberty of learning a few obscure insults beforehand. Loath as she was to admit it, seeing him and having the chance to fire an insult his way was something she always looked forward to.

“That’s a new one. Gosh, Little Lady Stark, it’s like you make them just for me,” Leopold replied, grinning with joy and eyes glinting in amusement. “Should I leave you alone?”

“Yes… you disgust me… and I’m busy.”

“That’s a shame. You don’t disgust me. Why do I disgust you?”

“Your repulsive character. You’re vile and cruel because you make me endure your presence for longer than I want to.” Deep in her heart, she knew none of this was true. His presence brought a warmth into her heart, even when she was in the sourest of moods. His wittiness made her laugh, but she’d suffer torture than tell him that. 

In hindsight though, perhaps he knew all that anyway.

“I don’t care. Go away. I need to do this stupid embroidery for the Septa!” She made a pretence as if she knew what she was doing.

His green eyes glimmered with cunning. “If I do it for you, will you continue to indulge me with some of those charming names?” It was like they were the fuel to his fire. 

“Do you have nothing better to do?”

“I do… of course I do… but nothing is as amusing to me as you, my lady.” He had taken to using that title for the scowl that it always brought to her face. She was silent as she continued to struggle with the needle. “Oh, give it here!” He snatched it from her, apparently as irritated by her efforts as she was by the craft. And so, began the long partnership between the Prince and the Warrior.

Now, when she was older and, dare she say it, wiser, she looked back at their petty little fights with fondness and amusement.

No doubt it raised several eyebrows when the salt-thrower and her victim became the unlikeliest of best of friends. 

Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut. Cersei Lannister had made an entrance, frightening and imposing as she was. 

“Lady Arya?” Cersei Lannister did not become the surprise that she pretended to feign. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking at my betrothed’s rooms. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me here,” Arya responded, feeling the heavy judgemental eye of her future mother-in-law. The Queen wasn’t much convinced.

“I’ve wanted to talk with you for a long time, Lady Arya. Come with me. My chambers are nearby.” Even for a girl as unrefined in the arts of ladyship as Arya, it was clear from the older woman’s tone that the girl could not refuse her. Meekly, though with head held high, she followed.

On the journey down the corridor, Arya noticed that Joffrey’s rooms were immediately next door to Leopold’s. This was not unusual for the first and second sons of a lord, or indeed a king, but it was an uncomfortable revelation. 

The Queen poured them both some wine. “Do you like your betrothed, Lady Arya?” This must have been a trick question.

“Leopold and I have always been close friends, Your Grace,” Arya answered curtly, sipping wine.

“Is that so?” Cersei investigated her goblet in a way that made Arya believe the Queen was, despite her perfect appearances, a closet alcoholic. There was something familiar and lustful in that look of wine. “My, my… the boy has peculiar tastes in girls.”

Arya cocked her head. “Tastes?” 

“Oh yes,” Cersei’s eyes turned vicious. “I don’t quite understand the appeal that he sees in you, lady Arya. You have neither the cleavage, or the hips or the womanly manners. You’re just a child. I’m told you spend most of your time poking sons of butchers and blacksmiths with wooden swords. You’re no great beauty… obviously.” There was something eerily familiar in that look of revulsion, in that it gave the swift and hard kick of tears to her eyes, which Arya refused to shed. “So, tell me, lady Arya, how did you manage to ensnare the lust of my son?” 

“Lust of your son?” Arya wanted to laugh, and she swallowed the tears that had not had the opportunity to well. “It’s an arranged marriage. There is no love… or lust.”

Cersei laughed, cruelly. “You’re not particularly bright either.” Arya wanted to throw the goblet of wine at the wretched woman with a fiery passion. “I remember being at your family’s feast at Winterfell and that stupid love-struck look that my son kept throwing at you, but you were too busy throwing greasy tarts at your sister’s face to notice.”

Arya flushed a crimson red, both from the hurt and the embarrassment. “Leopold Lannister is most certainly not in love with me!”

Cersei’s eyes, so eerily like the ones that Arya had become fond of, rolled in exasperation. She did not have her son’s patience for this girl. “I think, for a mother-in-law-to-be, the important question is whether you love my son.” 

She did not think she could blush any brighter, but she did, and Cersei easily noticed that. There was no point to press the question – Arya would lie, but Cersei knew the truth.

After a few more sour questions that only the Queen could ask, Arya was able to politely escape. She left with two new thoughts; the first was that Leopold Lannister might just have interests in her that were more than friendship and familial duty and the second was that she must have been feeling something similar, since she was still willing to marry him, despite the mother-in-law that came with the arrangement.

[][][][][][][]

When Leopold and his party rode through the King’s Gate, Joffrey knew he was in trouble. 

The court had called it, his brother’s diplomatic masterstroke, as the Golden Alliance, representative of both the gold coins that united the three paramount houses of the West and South and the golden lion, golden rose and golden sun that struck the deal. 

Leopold had made a reputation for himself with a twist of a tongue. 

The Court of King’s Landing wouldn’t shut up about it. His brother, the great Leopold Lannister, was considered a diplomatic hero and prodigy by everyone. Even Robert, with all his repulsion of Lannisters and peacetime, showed some sort of pride for the second prince.

It tortured Joffrey’s soul to hear them sing songs about his crippled brother. 

Joffrey was the next king! He was to have dominion of the Seven Kingdoms! He was not meant to bow down to his younger brother! The commoners were meant to sing songs of him!

It ebbed at Joffrey’s conscience the power that his brother had amassed. 

Leopold was the next Lord Paramount of the West. He had made some clever pact with the Reach and Dorne. Through marriage, he would have the North and the Riverlands. That was five of Joffrey’s seven kingdoms for Leopold to wrap his greasy fingers around! All that was left for the next Crown was the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Vale and some rocks on the edge of the world that were called the Iron Islands. Wealth and wine for Leo and bad weather and barren land for Joff.

Leopold Lannister… the name alone made Joffrey’s throat taste like bile. Before he agreed to the Lannister name, he had stolen Robert’s love from Joffrey. He had once been a sickeningly perfect warrior and then a bright scholar or brilliant diplomat or witty courtier or whatever it was that he put his mind to. To hate him was easier than breathing. To love his perfection was impossible.

Aside from bitter brotherly rivalry, Joffrey was very aware of the real threat that Leopold posed for his upcoming reign. People talked about the potential of war should the heir inherit their destinies. As it stood, especially with this Golden Alliance, Joffrey’s odds in such a war were very against him.

Unless, of course, he eradicated the competition completely.

This was how the Crown Prince discovered himself in the library, with the books about poison.

Joffrey had done his research beforehand. He knew that poisoning his brother’s food or drink would incriminate him, whether he did it himself or whether he hired someone to do it for him. Men could tell all manner of secrets under the pressure of torture. He needed something more… subtle.

Then he came across an herb called fire-nettles. These grew amongst the common folk, so they were easy enough to come by. In small quantities, they were used by the peasants to purify their homes from fleas, bed mites and rats. A fitting use, Joffrey thought. The noxious buggers triggered the poison by the mere movement of fiction and then became engulfed in heat, dying effectively and quickly. The specifics of science were lost on the Crown Prince.

In large quantities, Joffrey planned to embalm his brother’s wedding bedding sheets.

Leopold and his bride would burn alive in the bed of lust before they could have the chance to indulge in the heats of marital blessings.

Nothing would please Joffrey more than this one divine justice.

[][][][][][][]

“Are my wedding garbs vermillion or burning crimson?”

“Burning, Your Highness.”

“And are the trimmings a white or rose gold?”

“White, sir.”

“What about the Septon? Make sure he doesn’t have too much to drink tonight. I don’t want him to be hangover tomorrow.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

“What about the bride? Do you think she’s nervous? She’s always nervous when she has to act like a lady—”

Oberyn stop you babbling. “Stop your babbling. You sound like a maid before her first bedding.”

Leopold gave the Dornishman a look of irritation. “My dear Oberyn, I am a maid before my first bedding! My wedding is tomorrow.”

“If he’s lucky, his wife will wear the trousers in their marriage,” Willas laughed, sipping scalding tea. 

“Wives tend to do that whether they wear trousers or skirts,” Oberyn added.

“Oh ha ha, you would know that wouldn’t you? Bachelor…s. Bachelors,” Leopold snapped at them, flushing a red colour. 

“You know what we should do? We should throw a stag night for the son of the stag. Get horribly drunk and then the stick-up-his-arse fiancé will become a funny jester all over again.” Truth be told, Oberyn just really wanted a drink. The sun was going down over King’s Landing and his paramour did not come with him, preferring the comforts of Sunspear to the murk of the capital. Red wine would be a comfort.

“Absolutely not, I’ll be hangover on the actual wedding! Then I’ll mess everything up and my bride will murder me.”

“And that’s bad, why? I happen to like them a little frustrated,” Oberyn laughed and Willas rolled his eyes at his friend’s lewdness.

“I’m not you,” Leopold barked, obviously irate. 

Even Willas could take no more of this, he agreed with the Martell on what should be done with the Royal Prince. 

“For the last bleeding time, I’m not getting drunk on the eve of my wedding!” 

Two hours later, the streets of King’s Landing fell victim to three nobles of varying walking ability on a tour of the cities’ wine houses. The idea had sparked from Oberyn and Willas debating whose homeland produced the best wine, the winner of which would feed the nervous groom. Since neither could come up with a solution, they decided to try all the Dornish and Reach wines in every wine house of the city.

They were being escorted by guards from all three provinces and houses, all of whom witnessed their lords in the highest level of foolishness. On several occasions, the Tyrell guards had to perform daring rescue attempts to stop Willas Tyrell from galloping out of notice. The Lannister men had to reassure the Gold Cloaks that this was the son of the king and his friends – to arrest them would be treason. Most expert of all, the Dornish Martells had to stop Oberyn from killing some poor wine-house keeper. Whatever the personal quarrels between the three houses were, the guards made a united front on making sure their masters didn’t get themselves killed. 

It was quite the spectacle for the everyday King’s Landing peasant.

“En garde!” Leopold shouted, as he and Willas mounted horses and fenced with their respective walking devices. Oberyn was, in the meantime, making love to some city wench against a tavern’s door.

“More wine!” Willas yelled for, after the fencing match was over, and some tavern boy ran up to serve him.

The three men had no care for the consequences or the prices. They were famous, rich and powerful. With the Golden Alliance, they were the kings of the kingdom and the world of debauchery had spread its hot legs for them. 

It was a good new world.

[][][][][][][]

It was a bad new morning. The worst possible hangover had struck Leopold Lannister with the force of a thousand horses. Worst of all, he remembered nothing of the previous night. No recollection of whether he had killed anyone or lost his virginity to a tavern wench or even the faintest idea of where his boots were for his feet were as bare as the day he was born. He did recollect the amount of wine his body had drunk, the heat in his cheeks and the pounding inside of his skull.   
He swore that he would never drink again.

With a resounding thud, Leopold rolled off the cot that he had founded himself on. He looked around the room. Willas was sprawled over one side of a large bed with Oberyn on the other end. Between the two men lay a naked whore, which Leopold briefly remembered Oberyn had convinced into drinking with them. These were not chambers in the Red Keep. They were in a brothel. 

He swore that he’d never go drinking with Oberyn Martell again.

With some effort, Leopold threw a pillow at Willas to wake up the man. When the pillows failed to achieve its purpose, Leopold began to crawl to the bedside.

“Willas! Wake up!”

“W-hat?” The Tyrell blinked his eyes, looked down bellow and saw the Prince with his belly on the floor. “What are you doing down there?”

“Praying for the gods to kill me,” Leopold growled into the carpet. His head felt like a hammer was clocking the sides of his brain. “I’m going to be sick.” And he was.

Willas dismissed the vomiting Prince to his business. They would have to be on the move soon anyway. Where exactly they were meant to be would come to him in a moment. He turned his head and realised that he was sharing a bed with Oberyn Martell.

“Holy crap!” Willas shrieked and looked below the sheets to find that, much to his relief, he was fully clothed. “Um… Leo… when you’re done down there, would you be so kind as to remember what happened last night?”

“Better ask the guards than me. I’m drawing a complete blank on this,” Leopold wiped his mouth of sick. “Where are they anyway?”

“Probably spending our coin on their own wenches,” said Willas. “Do you know where we are supposed to be, Leo? I swear we had to be somewhere today.”

“No idea, to be honest,” Leopold proceeded to be sick. 

Willas growled in annoyance. “So much for a Golden Alliance, eh? Two drinks of Arbour gold and we were all hammered.”

“Yeah, ‘Arbour gold’,” Leopold said, with a roll of the eyes. “Then we mixed it with some Dornish red across the street to compare the two and then went for a few Western spirits to toast to me and then…”

“Ah I remember now. Then we went to drink some Northern spirits to toast that bride of yours—” Willas’ eyes bulged in realisation. “Bride! Leo! Wedding!”

Having minimal brain power this early in the morning, Leopold’s expression was murky with the residue of alcohol. “What wedding?”

Willas didn’t bother explaining it to him. He bolted into an upright position and slapped the Dornish Prince across the face. “Oberyn! Get up! The Royal Wedding!” The Dornish Prince woke immediately, grabbing a boot knife and dangerously wielding it. Upon recognising the Tyrell, he lowered his guard.

“Do we have to?” He moaned and began to wake the whore in his arms, suddenly in the mood for her services. “I have other activities on my mind than boring wedding ceremonies.”

“You can bring her with you. Come on Oberyn, lets get our Prince to his Princess. He’s supposed to get married at noon, yet he’s throwing up like a fountain.”

“Seven hells, Tyrell!” Oberyn stood up and stretched, naked in all his glory. “I know just the thing for our Prince of Lannister. Trust experience, little flower.” Leopold may have been completely off his face, but even he knew the evil glint in Oberyn’s mad eyes when he saw it. 

“Do not call me ‘little flower’!” 

[][][][][][][]

“What now?” Leopold swayed in place in a brothel’s backyard. One Tyrell and one Lannister guard were holding him up right, since he could not be trusted to balance on his crutches. He was so hangover that his head hung like a dead doll’s. The alcohol had not finished burning through his liver.

“Hold still,” Oberyn said, with a wicked voice. Willas Tyrell was standing beside him with a resigned look on his face.

A Dornish guard came up behind the Prince and the two guards that held him in place and poured a bucket of the coldest water in King’s Landing onto the drunk boy. The water poured in such quantities and with such rapidity that the Prince had no time even to scream, though his frozen lungs desperately wanted to. Everything was wet, hair, skin and under skin included. 

Soaking, freezing, angry, but admittedly no longer hungover, the royal Prince unleashed a torrent of foul curse words at his two friends.

Dutiful and snickering, the Martell and Tyrell escorted the dejected Prince to the Red Keep.

“Hey, Lannister! Feeling up for a spice bath! No cold water this time!” Oberyn called back at the Soaking Lion trailing behind, looking like a drowned cat.

“Fuck off, Martell!” Came the resounding answer.

“What’s the matter? Does the cat fear getting sprayed by a bit of water?” The cat puns had been a running theme from Willas Tyrell. 

“I will tear out each one of your little petals from their stem, little flower,” Leopold attacked, viciously. Oberyn laughed.

When they reached the Red Keep, the steward who was responsible for the Royal Wedding arrangements gained full custody of the Prince, throwing vicious looks at the two lordlings, who continued yelling cattish jests even as the Prince was dragged off to the royal bath house.

Leopold was washed, scrubbed and exfoliated with the traditional herbs of a groom. Perfumed to near intoxication and dressed in the finest crimson and gold robes that the Red Keep could provide. A golden necklet was placed over his shoulders with a lion head emblem. Mussed, drunk hair was combed into a handsome style. Somewhere in the middle of this whole affair, Leopold finally realised that he was getting married… to Arya Stark!

The boy should have felt some sort of emotion for marrying the only girl that he had ever loved, but the alcohol still in his veins dulled any feelings of shock, fear or joy. Cold as ice, the Prince was Devilettes to the steamed Sept of Baelor.

[][][][][][][]

“You missed your wedding breakfast,” Cersei whispered to Leopold when he ascended the stairs to stand underneath the Father. She had been speaking with the High Septon. 

“Wasn’t hungry,” Leopold replied simply.

“You were making a spectacle of yourself with that Tyrell and Martell,” Cersei snapped. “They’re beneath you! I wonder what my father will have to say about this.”

Leopold could have laughed, if he had the mirth. “You can tell him whatever you like. I was not just drinking. I was solidifying the alliances that he ordered me to make and keep.” Cersei glared at her son and was about to say something when Lord Stark stepped into the sept with his daughter on his arm.

“We’ll talk later. I have something I need to tell you.”

The ceremony was about to begin. The choir began to sing and the Septon fiddled with the Seven-Pointed Star in his hands nervously. The Prince gazed at his bride, with hazy eyes.

There was a scowl masking her face. Her hair had been strung in its prettiest butterfly form, no doubt the hard toils of Sansa. Her grip on her father’s arm was quite tight, but that might have been just nerves rather than reluctance. He hoped he knew her well enough to understand that she did, deep down, want to marry him. She wore a silver and white dress into which she was obviously forced into and that he imagined she had fought off with tooth and nail. On that thought, his mind made an impromptu visit into its darkest, but nonetheless frequently visited, corners of fantasy to imagine her without her dress, fighting with tooth and nail.

“You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the High Septon announced, breaking Leopold’s thoughts and fantasies. 

He flourished the crimson and gold lions of his house and placed them on her warm shoulders. The colourful lions looked strange on the grey wolf.

They swore their seven vows and became man and wife.

Leopold and Arya Lannister pledged their love with a kiss.

[][][][][][][]

The King had proclaimed that a joust was in order. The joust and the feast were about the only things that the king looked forward to on his son’s wedding day. The lists were as full as they always were in King’s Landing. 

Leopold could hear his father-in-law growl about how the knights of King’s Landing were roosters, strutting about in their armour but never saw an arrow fly their way. Leopold refrained from making a pun when a scion of House Swyft of Cornfield, bearing the sigil of the blue rooster, rode into the lists.

The Prince had recognised several names on the lists. Many Westermen had journeyed to King’s Landing for the wedding of their liege’s heir. Those that were sufficiently friendly with Leopold and had no female relations present rode up to the royal couple and asked for their liege’s heir’s wife to favour them when they were to ride against someone from a different province. 

Oberyn Martell had entered the lists and Leopold was under the impression that the Dornishman had aimed to be put in the same joust as The Mountain. Alas, the drawing straws did not favour him, no matter how much he offered to bribe the straw holder. Oberyn came back to the Prince and Heir of Highgarden moaning.

“It seems the straw holder is already bought,” Willas suggested, rubbing his chin and watching as two knights rode against one another.

“By a Lannister if I had to guess,” Oberyn smirked at Leopold. “The man seemed too afraid to even ask for a price.” The Dornishman placed a hand on Leopold’s backrest and the other on his table and brought his face close to the Prince. “Are you trying to protect a loyal bannerman, Heir of Casterly Rock?”

“I’m not the only Lannister in this city, Oberyn. What is Ser Gregor to me in comparison to your friendship?” Leopold defended himself against the fierce, fiery snake bite. It seemed to calm the fires of Oberyn’s passions.

“Is it true that members of House Martell adopt the Martell name even if the Lord Paramount is a woman?” Arya suddenly asked the Dornishman. The three men turned to look at her in surprise for a moment before their faces broke into separate emotions; Leopold smiled with gratitude, Willas gave the royal Prince a knowing smirk and Oberyn’s eyes sparked with curiosity.

“Why, yes, Your Highness,” Oberyn answered. “Martell is a name of power. We are not like the rest of Westeros. We don’t care who comes first, boy or girl, and our laws insist on a Nymeros Martell ruling Dorne for the rest of time.”

Arya grinned with pleasure. “Nymeros as in Nymeria, the warrior Queen?”

“Yes. Our heroine. The first warrior queen of Dorne.” Oberyn pulled a seat beside the bride, for they were conversing on the one subject that every man loved – his history.   
“I named my pet wolf Nymeria. She’s the fiercest of the litter and the most protective. She protected me from Joffrey on the Trident.” Arya told Oberyn. “The Queen wanted to kill her,” Arya said with more venom than even the Red Viper could muster. He was evidently impressed. 

“My house is honoured that the next Lady of the Rock takes such fascination and respect with Dornish history. If you like, I would send you books on Queen Nymeria, though your husband should already have these books.” Oberyn glared at the Prince who merely shrugged and continued talk with Willas Tyrell. “Should your eyes grow tired of looking at his golden head and his golden castle and his golden children, my lady is most welcome to Dorne.”

Leopold, who heard Oberyn’s feeble attempts at stealing a bride on her wedding day, turned to the Dornishman and his bride. “Yes, my dear, and then your eyes will no longer see the gold of my house but the gold of the Dornish deserts, which, admittedly, is a slightly different shade.”

Oberyn decided to continue this inflamed scratch of rivalry. “Should you find your husband disagreeable, I’d be more than happy to school you on the practises of poison and swordplay, my lady. I’ve taught all my daughters and I have eight.”

“My wife already has a teacher – a Bravosi swordsman, don’t you, dear?”

“Ladies, ladies!” Willas interrupted this foolish competition between the two men. “Stop ruffling each other’s feathers, we are about to discover who bought your Mountain.”

The Mountain rode against a Ser Hugh of the Vale. According to a minor Reach lord who Willas called forward, Ser Hugh was freshly knighted, conveniently after the death of Jon Arryn. 

Then, Jon Arryn was indeed, as Leopold had suspected, murdered, and the murderer was covering his tracks.

“See? I told you it wasn’t me,” Leopold swatted the Dornish Prince, just as the horses charged. Lances broke, and a sharp wedge of wood found its mark in Ser Hugh’s throat. The coughing of hot blood was both discomforting and mesmerising. Arya was most fascinated of all.

“So, it would seem,” Oberyn scratched his beard and his eyes wandered to the other Lannisters at the Tourney – the Queen, the children and the Knight. The Lannister that he was most anxious to meet was not present. 

[][][][][][][]

It was a stifling hot day in King’s Landing. People were roasting alive on the streets. So, the wedding feast was held in the outdoors. 

When the eyes of the kingdom were off them, Arya finally punched Leopold’s arm. “You idiot! You scared me when you didn’t show up to the wedding breakfast!” 

Leopold smirked into his goblet of pomegranate juice. “What? Afraid I’d leave you alone under The Mother, Princess Arya?” He teased. That earned him a hard kick under the table. 

“Only the gods know your mind, Leo! For all I know, you could have met the beautiful Margaery Tyrell or the illustrious Arianne Martell and fallen in love, struck your Golden Alliance and decided to marry them instead.”

“Do my ears deceive me or do I detect jealousy?”

“No!” Arya protested vehemently, turning a boiling red colour. “I simply didn’t want to look like a fool at the Sept. What did you do last night?!”

“Gods help me! You sound like a wife already,” Leopold laughed and avoided the question, since Arya shut up, as if proving that she wasn’t going to nag him, like a wife. If he told her, she would either clobber his head for being so stupid or bludgeon him for not bringing her with them and honestly he didn’t know which was worse. Truth be told, there were simply some things that were best done alone with men, like stag nights.

Since the groom had not been present for the breakfast, the gift giving ceremony was postponed to the wedding feast. 

Ned Stark presented his daughter and son-in-law with a silver chalice in which were engraved dancing wolves, lions, stags and fish. Robert Baratheon joked and had seven barrels of the finest wine brought from his cellars which the newly-weds could drink from their chalice, no doubt paid for by Leopold’s future gold. Willas Tyrell had servants bring several volumes of Valyrian philosophy to make the Prince practically bounce in his seat. Oberyn Martell brought a memorable gift. A Martell servant led a midnight black Dornish mustang into the wedding feast. Oberyn stood up and gave a long speech as Leopold stared into the eyes of the hellish beast.

“Today marks the day of maturity for one man and woman! A man and wife become mature today….” Leopold had the feeling that Oberyn was purposefully giving the most dull and generic speech in living memory so that the beast would remain at Leopold’s wedding parlour. Either that or someone should have poured over him a barrel of ice water to awake him from his drunken stupor. “…As such, I decided to give His Highness a gift that would teach him the meaning of marriage – the beast that will teach him to conquer fear. Now Leo, my friend, if you don’t know how to tame your fears of such a magnificent beast, how can you ever be trusted with such a magnificent wife!”

“Thank you for that… certainly long… speech, my friend,” Leopold gulped. “But perhaps this is a gift best suited for my wife. She is a very skilled rider.”

“Don’t be rude, my lord. To re-gift a gift is bad manners,” Arya grinned, evilly, and Oberyn toasted her, shouting his gratitude of Leopold marrying this witty girl instead of his niece. “Go on, name him, my lord husband.” There was mockery in her voice. This was evidently revenge for missing the breakfast. Suddenly, married life looked less appealing than Leopold originally imagined.

“Terror,” Leopold said. “I’ll name him Terror.”

“It’s a mare, Your Highness,” Oberyn said.

“Terror is especially apt then!” Leopold shouted back, and the men of the court laughed, while their wives and daughters swatted at them.

“Very well named, then,” Oberyn laughed, spluttering his wine with his laughter. “I wish the young lions a happy marriage and a fruitful mating season!” While the couple blushed, the entire court drank to that, save one brother, growling in the corner. 

“Look at that! You’re now my little Lady Lannister, aren’t you?” Leopold mocked her. Arya glared with mock hatred and kicked his laughing form. With joy slowly regaining ground in his body, Leopold stuck out a childish tongue.

“Actually, I believe it’s Princess Arya Lannister, is it not?” A shadow fell over the glowing couple, as Joffrey hovered over them. The court’s laughter and merry died with his presence. It was well known how much Joffrey hated both his brother and sister-in-law. “Brother! I wish you and your lovely bride a happy day! There is no need for glares!”

“What do you want?” Leopold would have stood, but remained seated, with a firm and reassuring hand clenched around his wife’s hand. Now was not the time for battle.

“Only to give my brother and sister-in-law my wedding present,” Joffrey grinned wickedly. When Leopold made no response, Joffrey huffed. “Well don’t jump at me with gratitude,” Joffrey smirked and clicked his fingers. Servants brought forward a wrinkly old hag who dropped down with cross legs in front of the royal table and began a strange ritual.

“Who have you brought to us, brother?” Leopold snapped, hotly.

“Amongst the common folk, there is a tradition of getting a local witch to tell the fortune of the happy couple on their wedding day. It’s not serious, only a bit of fun to tell my future nephews and nieces, when the fortune is as dusty as burnt ash.” Joffrey grinned wickedly as the hag began to do her work. If the court was not quiet already, they were now as everyone leered forward to hear the fortune.

“SALTER WOE more of gold than of blood. Flee, foes! For the Iron Dragon will scatter the enemies of the east, west, south and north. The very earth will shake under his banner. The King of diamonds will have one Queen of spades and one Queen of hearts. Behold the great and the terrible! Beware his roar! Be cautious, my Prince, of the bed of fire.”

Needless to say, the old hag found herself in the black cells of the Red Keep faster than anyone could say “Targaryen sympathiser”. Joffrey was sent to his chambers by Robert and Leopold discreetly wrote down the words in his little red book.

“Something tells me that didn’t work out like he hoped it would,” Willas whispered to Leopold.

“My brother’s schemes rarely do,” Leopold said shutting his book. “At least he’s been put away and I don’t have to see any more of his schemes play out for today.”

The King stood, or at least tried to, drunk as he was, to give some words. “We’ve wed them… we’ve jousted them… we’ve clearly fed them… now let’s bed them!” The cheers rose from the court guests and Arya sunk into her seat. “My l-lords… settle down... don’t get your breeches excited… my lord Hand and my son both asked me to dispense with the public ceremony on the grounds of his weak legs… so be it! Don’t want the son of the Whoremonger King to humiliate himself in the marriage bed, do we?” The court and Prince laughed. Arya shrivelled with doubt.

“Arya… it’s time,” Leopold stood on his crutches and Arya followed suit. 

It was an anticlimactic exeunt, the guests thought.

[][][][][][][]

Arya vowed that if Leopold continued awkwardly fidgeting, she just might use her Bravosi sword-fighting skills to skewer him. His nervousness was becoming contagious and the brave façade that she had accumulated about the bedding was broken. He promised he wouldn’t, she thought, reassuring herself, and he never breaks his promises.   
The servants left. The door he locked – no one would see or hear them. The bed of lust stood, waiting for them.

“I hope the wedding was to your liking,” he said, not looking at her. He seemed to be thinking about something and she could only imagine what could make him so uncomfortable.

“It’s over.” 

“Yes, it is… well…almost.” She could see that he burned red from that comment. “There is one small… final detail left to conclude.”

She had been to the brothel in Winterfell and spoke to the whore. She had decided against repeating the conversation with a King’s Landing whore, feeling that she had an adequate knowledge of the whole process. Now, as she was standing there, and her legal husband was asking for permission to that which was his by law anyway, she suddenly felt very weak in the knees. There was an alarm pounding in the back of her head and something churned in the depths of her belly. She couldn’t do this. She needed more time. “I’m… not ready.”

“I know… how could you… we’ve always learnt everything together, have we not? Your growth spurt, my needlepoint skills, the ruder aspects of your vocabulary, my growth spurt, your flowering.” Leopold cleared his throat. “I’ve been absent these past for two months. I haven’t prepared you at all. I should have had someone prepare you… some knowledgeable septa or my mother or… someone, but I didn’t think about it.” Somehow, Arya sensed a lie in the last part.

“I would hate it if your mother told me how best to make love to you and it would be very strange if you were preparing me for my wedding night,” Arya reasoned.

“Yes, I know but… who else would prepare you,” Leopold fidgeted some more. Oh how little did her sweet husband know about her education, thought Arya. “Never mind. I made a promise and I’ll keep it. I will not make love to you until you desire it.” That, ironically, made something inside her twist with glee. “But I must confess something to you. Something I have always been afraid to tell you, but I can think of no better time than the wedding night to tell you.”

That made her brow quirk. “Oh? What is it? Its not another anticlimactic secret like last time is it? Not another Warrior and Prince fib?”

Leopold let out a weak laugh. “I hope not.” He did not want to do it standing, when he would wobble on his two crutches and win himself no favours. He needed stable ground for a ground-breaking discovery. He settled on his knees before her and wrapped his big strong hands around her knees for the stability of his body and the assurance of her presence. She must have felt him tremble. “I want you to know… that when I went to Casterly Rock my grandfather did indeed offer to clear our betrothal. In fact, by the time I had confronted him about it, he had already sent the raven. On the condition for our marriage, I agreed to strike an alliance with the Reach and peace with Dorne. Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell are indeed two of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. Marriage to either of them would have brought me so much more stability and wealth than marriage to you.”

It was perhaps not unreasonable for Arya to be irritated at Leopold for such a confession. “Then why didn’t you marry them, if they’re so bloody perfect?”

“Because I love you.” There was no mockery in his voice, only sincerity. The façade of courage that Arya had put up for herself was broken not by lies, but by the truth. “I have loved you from the moment that you threw salt into my eyes—”

“I highly doubt that—”

“I few days after the burning stopped then. I loved you when my eyes stopped burning, happy? I have loved you for every glare that you sent my way and I have loved you for every horrendous needlepoint correction that you’ve begged me of. I love you for all your non-ladylike sensibilities and for all your unique commentary. I love your fierce passions and your qualms with authority. I love that you will not bow to my will or kiss my arse, even if I was The Great Other himself. I love that you are strong and fierce and not without a sense of humour. I love you, Arya Stark.”

He didn’t look her in the eyes as he said it. If he had, he would have seen a stoic girl.

The confession was… confusing. 

Some part of her had always known that Leopold Lannister had feelings for her. Her mother had often hinted at… something, though she had never paid much mind to it. Her siblings were never as favoured as she had been by him. Most evidently, he had kissed her in the stables before he rode off to Casterly Rock and he confessed that he wanted to marry her. 

But love her? That was something different. It crossed a boundary of security. A secret, something she had not known before, was uncovered and another motive for marriage was presented to her. He had orchestrated this marriage, not for the altruistic motives that he had first described, but for something else entirely, something more devious.

“…I know. I know you’re not ready. I know you don’t love me as I love you. I only hope that I can persuade you to have the same feelings for me, one day in the future…" 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” She asked, her voice on the verge of anger.

“…I… wait, what-- what do you mean tell you earlier?”

“When our engagement was announced, for example. You could have told me that you wanted to marry me because you… I don’t know… wanted to bed me or whatever it is you want from me… but instead you started to talk about some cow dung like friendship and… and being together forever—” He had the audacity to cover her mouth. 

“Arya… I…” He staggered. Of all the things that Leopold had felt guilty about, his confession to Arya on the night of their engagement was not one of them. “I’m sorry… you were just so… so… distraught at finding out that I had to tell you something to make you happy… I wanted to tell you. I really did… I also meant what I said. I want you for your love, not your body… and I will demonstrate that by not continuing this conversation and going to bed. I’m exhausted.” He was indeed tired. He had not slept well in 48 hours and a wedding ceremony took a lot out of him. After quickly stripping the crimson and the gold and the white undershirt, Leopold lay down in the soft bed with a naked chest and light trunks, careless of the girl’s wide, unaccustomed eyes.

This was a crappy way to end a wedding night.

The bed linen felt itchy, which was odd. Leopold had specified to the steward in chief how exactly he wanted his bed. He resigned to the scratchiness and promised to have words with the chief steward on the morning. Leopold had other concerns that night as he lay down, like how wrong his confession of love went.

It seemed like hours passed before Arya joined him under the sheets. She made sure that she left the largest possible distance between them in the bed and faced him with her back. 

It felt awful.

It was hours later when she woke him, violently, screaming and panting and begging for help. She said she was burning and he had to admit that he was building up a heat himself. It was strange. He was disorientated. He wasn’t thinking straight. It was only when she couldn’t speak that his brain clicked – they were both poisoned.   
Leopold pushed himself off the bed and crawled to his travel chests. The heat was building from all sides; back, armpits, groin and throat. Trembling fingers reached into the wooden chest, clutching at the lock. Suddenly, breathing became very hard and his eyesight became blurry and spotty. Sweaty palms grappled with the various jars inside. They were all the same. There was one that he needed - only one. 

“What… what is it?” Her faint voice coughed lightly.

“Bezoar extract…” he whispered before everything went black and the fumbling fingers went limp

[][][][][][][]

When Leopold woke up, he knew that he had been asleep for a long time. How he knew that was difficult to say? When he rolled over, he noticed that it was not his rooms that he was sleeping in, but one of the guest rooms. 

His mother was dozing in one of the chairs beside his bed and she had been weaving a rosary for the Seven gods. It was funny – one would think the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would have more important things to do with her time than string together straw by a sleeping boy’s bedside.

Gently, Leopold woke her up.

“Where’s Arya? Is she…” He asked, once she was awake and over the euphoria of finding out that he was awake.

“Your wife is fine. She had a faster recovery – two days.”

“And me?”

“Three days.”

“How was I poisoned?”

Something changed in Cersei’s mood. She became colder. “Maester Pycelle has identified that your bedsheets were embalmed in ‘fire-nettles’. They’re a common herb grown in fertile climates.”

There was only one thing that could change Cersei’s expression and tone. She would never allow any of her children to be harmed or to be harmed without vengeance, except when, of course, her children hurt each other. “It was Joffrey, wasn’t it?”

“Leopold, please, we don’t know for certain—”

“You’re defending him, again?!”

“Leo… don’t be irrational. This plant is grown everywhere. It could have been any common criminal, not Joffrey. Your father has hanged 50 criminals for this travesty.”

“You can hang a hundred criminals for all I care, I want Joffrey’s head!”

“Leopold, please…”

“I almost died! Do you not understand!? I almost died, and you couldn’t care less! Again!” Leopold screamed. 

“Leopold shut up and listen to me,” Cersei grabbed her son’s fuming head and looked him straight in the eye. “You can rage against your brother all you want, but I need you to know something before you do that.” She licked her lips. “Lord Stark has been snooping around the death of Jon Arryn. He wants to find out the truth and if he should find the truth, he will tell the king. If he does, the King will wipe out your entire family – myself, Jaime, Myrcella and Tommen and even you. Should he spare you and your siblings, how do you think your marriage to his closest friend’s daughter will work? A highborn lady and a bastard born of incest, who will have nothing to his name. Yes…. a bastard can’t inherit Casterly Rock, can he? Your parents will be slaughtered. The Lannister clan will disown you. Without your Lannister name, you can’t uphold your precious Golden Alliance. Without a highborn name, you can’t be married to highborn girl. Without our family, you will be nothing but a crippled beggar in the streets. So I ask you know to reconsider your wrath towards your brother and work at how best to hide the secret of your birth from Lord Stark.”

This had been her gambit all along: organising the marriage between Arya and Leopold, telling him about his birth when he was seven years old, persuading him to adopt his mother’s family name, sending him away to Winterfell. All of this, Leopold now realised, had been her masterstroke in the Great Game. She had reared her second son to be a safety net, should the secret that could ruin their entire family threat to be known. 

Leopold had been a pawn. He had no choice, but to move one square at a time forward.


	5. Finding your Feet

[][][][Arya][][][]

"Leave us." Leopold's dismissal of the servants startled her. She could tell from his voice that he was angry. When the servants left and the two of them were alone, Arya's belly gave an unpleasant twist. His crutches thumped with harsh, irate movements. The emerald eyes practically hissed with anger. He had never inspired fear before, but in this one moment, being in the same room as him, she felt her shoulders shrivel.

He advanced onto her without saying a word. Absent-mindedly, he looked into her empty food tray and kicked aside her shoes. Arya suspected that he was avoiding the coming conversation and her mind wandered to what that conversation could be.

Everything was left so awkwardly on their wedding night. He had confessed his love for her and her reply had been… less than enthusiastic. For the first time, they felt the coldness of a marriage bed. It took poison to have them cast aside their awkwardness, but now they were cured, and everything returned back to the unease that had been before.

She did care for him, truly. Love him? …maybe. She wasn't sure. Arya didn't really know what love was, to be honest. She knew she really, really liked him and that she cared for him and that she wouldn't mind being married to him. Bearing his children? That was an odd thought. The process of making those children, even with the whore's tutelage, was an odder thought.

He did have a nice body; her mind took her to the wedding night, where he stripped. She mentally slapped herself for venturing into that forbidden, yet persistently curious place in her mind.

"Leo?" She finally broke the uncomfortable silence. It was the hellish silence that she wanted to stop, but he said nothing. Only stared at her. "I'm… so sorry."

"For what?"

"For the night. For my behaviour after your… erm." Confession of love, her mind finished the sentence, traitorously.

He sighed and sat down on her bed, fiddling with the wooden crutches in his hands. "No… I had been foolish. I shouldn't have burdened you with… feelings," he spat the word as if it was a repugnance. Arya realised that she had hurt him, not that her strong and noble lion would ever admit to that. "It was poison, by the way."

"In the food?"

"No… the bed sheets." When he saw her confusion, he elaborated. "It was an unorthodox poison - not normally used for killing but rather by peasant woman to cleanse their homes of pests. The sheets were embalmed in the juice of fire-nettles."

Traditionally, after her wedding, a bride would relocate her quarters to either those that belonged to her husband or the couple would be granted different chambers by the Lord of the castle. Servants had moved her belongings to Leopold's rooms - they were large enough for a family - and they shared their fatal wedding night there, but upon recovery she woke up in her old rooms in the Tower of the Hand. With his bed poisoned, Arya had no idea where Leopold resided - guest rooms, was her best guest.

"Do you know who did it?" She asked.

He breathed. "No."

He always breathed deeply before telling a lie and his voice usually went quiet. Months of waging child-like warfare and followed by years of friendship had attuned Arya to his tell-tale signs.

He had lied. He knew exactly who it was. It hurt to think that he wouldn't share his thoughts with her anymore, but she supposed she deserved it. If he was going to trust her ever again, she needed to win that privilege back.

"Do you at least have an idea?" To accuse him of his lies felt like an indelicate reaction to the situation.

"I'm working on it," he said, a hint of anger mixing his voice. "It's complicated."

"No, I understand… complicated…" she nodded. It was difficult for her to give him the space that he needed. She wanted to be close to him; she felt rotten alone, without him.

He stopped fiddling with his crutches and sharply turned to her, decisively making up his mind. "I came here for a reason and that is to tell you that we are in a dangerous place. We were almost murdered on our wedding night, if that isn't an indication of this city's danger then I don't know what is. To prevent something like this from happening again, I had this made for you."

"For me?" Arya quirked an eyebrow. Like anyone, she liked gifts, but now didn't seem like the time or place for them.

From the pocket of his liveries he took out a thin necklace made of gold and with golden wolf for the pendent. "I know you don't like jewellery, but for me you'll have to wear this on you all the time."

"All the time?"

Without permission, he clipped the necklace around the girl's neck. She took a moment to breathe in his scent - a scent that she dearly missed.

"In the mouth of the wolf, there is a small quantity of bezoar extract - a dosage that corresponds to your body mass. It should act as an antidote to most poisons. Promise me that if you ever feel a strange sensation, like the slightest tug of choking or even a bit queasy, you'll bite down the capsule and drink the extract. Better to be safe than sorry."

She examined the wolf pendant. Leopold had been thoughtful - he hid his antidote inside a fierce beast. "I promise."

He seemed satisfied.

It was so strange. They were a legal husband and wife. They had said their vows and shared a bed and yet she felt nothing different, except a monstrously large distance from him. He wasn't laughing, he wasn't grinning, he was keeping secrets and he had been blighted by her nonchalance of his confession. Marriage was not the fanciful songs that Sansa dreamed of. Even marriage to her best friend made it a bitter affair. It was hardly even a marriage.

"Would it have been easier if you married a Dornish Princess or a Highgarden rose?" She asked, sombre, with these thoughts pushing down on her mind.

That earned a chuckle from him. "Probably." Then he wouldn't have confessed or felt rotten or be a bachelor in all but name.

His light laugh did nothing to make her feel better. "I'm sorry," was all she could reply.

He sighed, looked at his crutches and made a move for them. "I have to get going. It's midnight. You need your rest."

She grabbed his wrist and stopped him from moving. "No." He quirked an eyebrow at her. She wanted to say something, anything, but literally nothing came into her mind or out of her lips. Her brain had never felt emptier when his eyes bore down at her.

His green gaze was intense, and she heard the sound of her clothes slipping from her shoulders in his mind. He had become very good at uncomfortable silences and few words as of late – it unnerved her. Slowly and cautiously, he brought his hand up, as if to touch her face. Something inside of her screamed at her not to duck away or swat it; something deep inside her desperately yearned for his touch. She had been so lonely without him these past few months and now that he was here, she had never felt further from him. Just to touch his warm skin would be enough, but before she could somehow articulate these desires to him, he dropped it.

His face turned cold. "I have a lot of work to do." He turned, sharply, and lumbered out of her chambers on his crutches, leaving her alone and saddened. What possible work could he have?

[][][][Leopold][][][]

The Mountain's rage was a spectacle to behold. Like wildfire, once sparked, he could melt a city. Such was the rage that he exhibited when Sir Loras dislocated him from his horse. The Mountain fell. He unleashed his rage by decapitating his horse with one stroke of the sword and then proceeded to almost murder the youngest of the Tyrell sons.

"It's the dirty trick that the mad dog sniffed," Willas informed Leopold. He had spotted what the Prince had missed. "My brother wanted to earn a bit of gold it seemed. Once again, the straw holder has been bought - but this time by a Tyrell, not a Lannister. Your family dog is a very useful creature."

Leopold saw Oberyn Martell standing in his armour, glaring at the scene. "If he continues to be outbid, our favourite viper will start choking on his own venom."

Willas rolled his eyes. "That will be the day... Besides, there will be no more tourneys thanks to your bannerman's spectacle. Oberyn has missed his opportunity."

"Why doesn't he confront the Mountain himself?"

Willas looked at Leopold strangely. "On what charges? For raping and murdering Rhaegar's wife and children? The Mountain had served his king well by cleansing him of doing the dishonourable deeds. Oberyn cannot strike with law. Fear not - there are, after all, other ways of killing one's enemies."

"I can imagine," said Leopold, sipping on some wine.

"Speaking of sinister intentions," Willas brought himself closer to Leopold so no other ears could hear their conversation. "My friends in the city have brought me some interesting information that you should know. Lords Renly, Baelish and Varys have been spending an astounding amount of time with Lord Stark."

"Why shouldn't the Hand frequently converse with his ministers? The realm is in debt and full of enemies and in need of justice, is it not?" said Leopold, bewildered by the Tyrell's insinuations.

Willas smirked. "You have so much to learn about courtly politics, little lion man. The North has done you no favours." Leopold realised that Willas was baiting him, but the patronising tone still triggered a violent lash.

"What is that supposed to mean?!"

"I'm telling you some critical information to help you keep your loved ones from danger, and you can't take the hint," said Willas. "Is it a case of deafness or a tragedy of idiocy or a fallacy of both?"

Leopold glared for the rhetorical question. "What do they want with Lord Stark?"

Willas chuckled. "What wouldn't they want with the Hand? Any man that controls the Hand of the King, controls the king and the realm. Now, a man without friends is a man that is easily controlled. Do tell me, Leo, who exactly is Lord Stark's friend in this city?"

Leopold looked around the Jousting arena flooded with knights, squires, gamblers and fools. If there were lords present, they were Southern ponces. If there were men of sense and honour present, they were invisible. If there were men of honesty present, they'd be dead. Lord Stark was the only honourable man living, noble and visible.

"Your silence speaks for you," Willas interrupted. "Have you been a bad son-in-law?"

"Oh, shut up," Leopold gulped down his ale. "I've been a bit preoccupied. Weddings and Golden Alliances take up a lot of time." Another thought occurred, and Leopold turned to the honey-haired roselord. "What's in this for you?"

"Excuse me?"

"This jibe at the neglection of my son-in-law duties that you've given me - I assume it's not free."

"Hmn… not as slow as you look, then," Willas ruffled the golden hair of the Prince and laughed. Leopold made a subtle gesture to have the Tyrell servant take away Willas' drink from him. Alcohol did no favours for a garden plant. "I'm a Tyrell. A gardener. Steward. I plant my seeds in the garden and wait until at least one will grow into a plentiful tree."

"You're going to have make a better analogy if you want me to see what you want," Leopold barked.

Willas swatted the Prince's shoulder. "Call it a favour that I may one day want back."

"Consider yourself the benefactor of a Lannister's debt," Leopold said, grumpily.

Willas' friends in the city were immensely useful creatures, Leopold thought. They whispered the positions of the enemy's board piece's and he made his moves; a clever cheat. What was it that the Spider always said? Knowledge was his trade. Knowledge was the trade of all men, not just eunuchs, and Leopold, like a scholar who just discovered a new book, wanted to learn this trade.

It was Sandor Clegane who was proclaimed the victor of the tourney, by Loras himself. As the crowds cheered for the dog while a servant came up to Leopold and whispered some words into his ear.

"If you would excuse me, my friend. The Queen summons me." With painful strides, Leopold made his long journey towards the castle and Maegor's Keep.

[][][][Leopold][][][]

His mother was not alone when Leopold found her.

There was a man in servant garbs and harsh face with his mother and he looked startled when he entered the room.

Leopold ignored the man and made his way to his mother, who stood smiling at him. She beckoned him closer to her and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, as if declaring him hers to her creature.

"I thought you might want some information about your latest project, my son." She turned back to the man. "This is my son, Leopold, and you will tell him everything that you have just told me."

"Information?" Leopold inquired.

"About the wolf lord," the man said. "M'lords Varys and Baelish have both been edging him closer to the discovery of who killed Jon Arryn. Lord Renly has also been very friendly with him. They've spoken in corridors. They've dined together at Lord Renly's table. My son, a pageboy, heard him plotting with Ser Loras Tyrell about becoming king."

Leopold wanted to laugh. "King? He's fifth in line."

"How far down the line was Robert? Those were the knight's words," the spy said, shrugging. Leopold was silent. 'Second in line' always seemed like a long mileage for the Throne, especially when the firstborn was soon to be married and presumably make him 'third-in-line'. Now it seemed relatively short when a young uncle was eyeing the throne.

"And you drink with that treasonous boy's brother!" Cersei hissed at Leopold, but kept her enveloping arm around him, forcibly, stubbornly.

"What kind of information have Lord Baelish and Varys been feeding the wolf-lord?" Leopold ignored his mother's words.

"Ned Stark has been talking to all sorts of people – whores, tavern wenches, bastards," the spy said.

"Interesting choice of company for Lord Stark," said Leopold.

"He borrowed a book from the Grand Maester recently," said the man.

"What book?" Asked Leopold.

"Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms: with descriptions of many high lords and ladies and their children." It occured to Leopold that the servant standing in front of him was able to read. His mother had found a valuable commodity in the castle walls.

Well…. shit. "Interesting," said Leopold.

"Thank you, my good man," Cersei inclined her head, while pushing something into the palm of his hand. The spy scurried out and Cersei waited several moments for him to vanish in the hallway.

"There you have it. Proof that your favourite father-in-law is plotting to destroy us."

"Not consciously, he's not. He has no idea. If he did or had the slightest suspicion, he'd have told Robert already and, perhaps more tellingly, not allowed his daughter to marry me. He's not cunning. He only wants to find out what happened to Jon Arryn." Leopold paused for breath. "The same can be said for Renly. If he wants to be king, all he has to do to get rid of most of the competition is tell Robert." Leopold tried to reason his mother, but he might as well have reasoned a raging tempest.

Cersei paced the rooms. "What does it matter? If Stark discovers the secret of your birth, he will destroy our family. I can't dismiss him as easily if he were anyone else. Robert loves him too much. You should hear him - the way he talks about Ned Stark, it's like he started his Rebellion for him, not his precious Lyanna." His mother saw only red. She wanted Stark blood on a sword and would accept nothing less.

"I know what I need to do." Truly, Leopold did. "And I will deal with this. I promise."

"Good."

Leopold gave a moment to think. "There is something that I will need. Could you spare me a few spies, mother?"

[][][][Leopold][][][]

Two agents were all that Leopold needed.

A serving girl and a knight by the name of Pluton were his mother's bounty. The girl was pretty, young and fresh. She had served his mother for years and had been the daughter of some minor Crownland lord. Pluton was an old and greying knight from the Westerlands. He had won many tourneys in his youth, but now his duties were those of a master at arms that owed everything he had, including the marriage of his only daughter to a minor Westerland lord's second son, to the Queen.

In the dead of night, Leopold had sent each on their respective missions.

To the serving girl he gave the task of extracting the book from the offices of the Hand. She had happened to know of a secret passage that led straight to the Tower of the Hand. Her missions were the delivery of the book to Leopold, waiting, and then returning the book where she found it.

For Pluton, Leopold gave the task of silencing King Robert's bastards. Leopold had given the man a bag of gold so that he could send them away somewhere, like the Wall or another city, but more likely than not Pluton would save the coins and start slitting throats. Safer dead, I suppose. What did a few meaningless peasant children compare to Leopold's safety, marriage and wealth? That's how he rationalised it at least.

There was a knock.

"Your Highness?" The girl's head peaked through the door.

His green eyes looked up in expectation. "Have you got it?"

"Yes, I think," she came in carrying a large tome and placed it on his desk. Her fingers lingered on the thick engraved lettering and travelled slowly up her body, starting from her lower abdomen, hovering over her breasts and finally into her chestnut coloured hair, where she adjusted a stray strand. "Will that be all, milord?" She was only a few years older than him.

Leaving was not what she wanted and…. come to think of it, neither did he. As lustful and as wrong as it sounded, he liked attention and women and he had been without the attention of women for far too long. Perhaps, if temptation allowed him, he would have the strength to block Arya's nonchalant attitude towards him.

"Did my mother set you up for this?" His experiences in Casterly Rock had not been forgotten. It wouldn't be unlike his mother to send a serving girl to seduce him, like his Grandfather tried.

The girl looked confused. "No, she did not. I offer myself on my own free choice." Suddenly, his body violently craved her warmth, despite the commands of his mind.

His brain was reeling. "I must finish with this book." He really did need to.

She seemed disappointed in him, but, to be honest, so was he. "As you wish, my prince." She inclined her head. "Would you like me to leave?"

No. "Yes."

Her warmth faded then. She pressed her lips together and crushed her fingers in a fist in the crevices of her skirt as if he wouldn't notice. Leopold's brain pounded with guilt, but he shook his head. He had done the right thing.

There was work yet to be done - forgery, to be exact.

The book that had Jon Arryn so enthralled that he died over it had a total of 42 pages on the Baratheon family tree. Fortunately for Leo, there weren't quite so many unions between Baratheons and Lannisters in the past 300 years - only 4. With finesse, Leopold took out the large parchment pages from the book bindings, marked their origins and sat over those four pages, copying them, for the next four and a half hours.

It was remarkable to have a family that had passed on the same black hair and blue eyes for three centuries. Sometimes there was some variation with eye colour - one boy was born with grey eyes and another girl with brown - but the rest were blue. It was then that Leopold realized that he needed to change not only the Lannister and Baratheon unions, but others as well.

Chalys Baratheon, born 195AC, whose mother was a Tully, now had the flaming red hair which Lord Stark would know was a dominant gene. Elysabeth Baratheon, born 75AC, had the dusty gold hair of House Dayne. Viserys Baratheon, whose mother was a Targaryen princess, harboured the Valyrian features that Robert despised. Leopold added that one as a joke for Robert. These, along with giving every child born of a Lannister ancestor golden hair, were the changes that Leopold made to the histories. Suddenly the ancient proverb "the victors write the histories" seemed very true to him.

Four hours were spent on fantasies and intricate penmanship. He sent the girl on her way with the book as the sun was beginning to rise and forcefully ignored the pulses his body made when he looked at her.

[][][][Leopold][][][]

Being awake for the entire night was an ethereal experience. To prowl the sleepy fortress of the Red Keep was strange. Awake were the servants: the cooks preparing breakfast, the cleaners washing the floors, the stewards changing the candles on chandeliers. The castle wasn't entirely dead as the sun rose, but it possessed the silence about it that Leopold had never previously known.

The laughter of the servants died when Leopold entered the rooms and they stared at him with wide eyes. A highborn rarely lurked the castle's shadows in the night. He had intruded on them.

"No, no, please continue. Don't mind me," Leopold wobbled on his crutches as he passed the crouching floor-scrubber or the stretching curtain duster, who continued staring at their royal intruder despite his orders.

The Throne Room was as majestic at night as it was during the day. The streaks of the moonlight fell through the glass and hit each of the molten blades, illuminating the rest of the grand room. The Iron Throne, a silver and black gem in arid red rock, dominated everything.

Leopold passed the throne and made his journey to the Tower of the Hand, where the stairs rose high and tall and by the time that Leopold reached Arya's bedroom, he was sweating and aching. Many times during the flights of stairs he pondered how absurdly far apart Maegor's Keep and the Tower of the Hand were from each other. With little introduction, he gave a grunt and pushed the door open.

To his surprise, Arya was not asleep. Dressed in white cotton that, under the light of the candles, illuminated the bones and muscles of her body, she waved the thin sword that Jon Snow had gifted her. Arya was diligently drilling through her morning exercises.

As he stood, watching her, not yet acknowledged, he wondered if coming here was a good idea. The last time they talked they had left their relationship on very awkward terms. He wasn't completely sure that he was ready to face her or indeed, share a bed with her, but then he imagined the body of the maidservant and the violent urges that his brain was pounding with and his belly welled with guilt. He loved Arya Stark - no maidservant could ever replace her - but his body needed the warmth of a woman.

No, he needed to mend his marriage.

"I hope you're not training to skewer me." Leopold's voice startled Arya, who whirled around to point the tip of her blade at him. "If you are, you'll be a very unfortunate widow."

Upon seeing him, she lowered her blade. A softness appeared on her face, as if she was relieved to see him. "Why?"

"Any wife of mine without me has a miserable existence," his voice was drizzled with the arrogance that had been truly buried years ago, under a debris of salt. What he exhibited was only a shadow of the former vice.

She rolled her eyes. "How would you know? I'm the only test subject."

"It's a theory. A theory doesn't require evidence. It just needs to sound convincing enough to be plausible." He laughed as he made his way towards the double bed, which he was eager to get into. Exhaustion and fatigue gripped him, guilt was plaguing him, the minutes of being awake were adding up and the schemes of rats and spiders and lions were making his head hurt - he wanted nothing more than to drop into a featherbed and shut his eyes. To shut his eyes and imagination from the picture of an eager servant awaiting to please him.

"Where were you the whole night?" Her curious voice made Leopold smirk.

"Does it matter?" Leopold asked as he began unbuckling his boots.

"Yes," Arya answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Slowly and discreetly, she made her way to him, sword still in hand.

"I see you're fitting into the role of wife quite nicely, then," Leopold laughed and pulled the white cotton undershirt over his head. Arya's eyes were blinded by the brightness of his golden, muscled chest. She turned away, and Leo arrogantly chuckled when he saw the action, but his rational mind tried to soothe his rampant concerns that Arya didn't want to gaze at his body.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said as her cheeks burned red.

"Right. I'm going to bed. Wake me up for breakfast. I want to eat with your father and sister," he crawled into the bed and inhaled the sheets that smelled like her. This was the warmth he'd be content with for now.

He felt her eyes on him for a long time after he pulled the covers, but he was too exhausted to continue the conversation. At some point in the deliria of dreams, he felt those covers pulled up to his chin and the wooden door shut.

[][][][Arya][][][]

Leopold had often broken fast with her family when they were in Winterfell, but now, watching him cut up a piece of bacon, something was different. He was part of the family - her husband, no less - not her father's ward. It was the first gathering that they had had since the wedding.

Her father and sister did not seem to feel the change in the family. They engaged in polite conversation and ate their toast with nonchalance. The sight of everyone eating made Arya nauseous. No matter how much she willed her hand to pick up the cutlery or her stomach to want the food, she couldn't muster the will.

She was married. Leopold was in love with her. The Queen hated her. Someone wanted to murder them. Leopold would now, presumably, sleep in her bed. Her father was the Hand. Her mother and brothers were thousands of miles away and, on top of all that, she had to chase cats today.

"May I be excused?" Arya asked her father. Her father gave a strange look before passing his gaze at Leo. How could she forget? It was her husband who she had to account to now.

He too seemed surprised by the change of ownership. "Y-you may. Of course." He made no eye contact with her, no doubt knowing that she did not want to think that he owned her.

When Arya rose to stand up, Sansa suddenly lost her own appetite as well. She turned to their father and asked the same question, which he granted without referring to the resident Prince. Sansa followed Arya to her room.

"What are you doing?" Arya asked when Sansa stood outside Arya's door.

"We need to talk," Sansa declared, pushed her little sister inside, and locked the door behind them. "What is happening with you and Leo? You hardly talk. You hardly laugh. You glare at him at every given opportunity. I haven't seen you two in the same room since your wedding. You've been eating badly. What happened?"

Arya didn't want to tell her sister, but keeping all the whirling feelings inside was becoming a struggle, even for the fierce she-wolf. She remained silent regardless. "Nothing."

Sansa's eyes scanned her sister before she gasped. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Arya has heard a lot of stupidity leave her sister's lips, but none as absurd as this. As such, Arya responded with an appropriate reaction. "What?!"

"Well, your moody and you don't have an appetite and he is your husband," Sansa reasoned.

"We've been married for less than a week!"

"So? You used to always visit his rooms," Sansa defended her losing argument. "Mother used to frown at that and I never really knew why, until now."

Arya shivered at the thought of her and Leopold doing anything like that before they were married. "No, I'm not pregnant. Leo and I haven't reached that stage of our relationship." Sansa looked shocked. "I know, but believe it or not my husband actually cares for me and didn't want to force me into bedding him."

"B-but he loves you… I don't understand—"

Arya turned sharply. "How do you know he loves me?"

Sansa shrieked with happiness and covered her mouth. "No? He told you!?"

Arya frowned with disbelief and crossed her arms. "He told you?"

"Oh Arya… everyone knows. Everyone's known for years that Leo loves you," Sansa said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"And how come no one told me?" Arya looked scandalised.

"Because you're too stubborn to listen to anyone when they did hint at it. No one wanted to hit you with a hammer to get you to notice Leo's love for you." Sansa paused. "Oh dear gods! How did you respond?"

Arya bit her lip. "Um…. less… enthusiastically." Sansa face fell. "I might have… pushed him away. I don't know. He poured all these feelings on me and I didn't know what to do with them. I just kind of… freaked."

Sansa groaned in deep disappointment. "When did this at least happen? Don't tell me your wedding night?" Arya's silence made Sansa want to kill her sister. "Arya, you're such an idiot."

"He started it! I wasn't ready! And he should have told me sooner!" Arya was aware how stupid she sounded, but she couldn't help it - her sister was right and she was in the wrong.

"Arya you can be such a child!" Sansa groaned. "Do you at least love him?"

"I don't know!" Arya screamed at the redhead. "I… I think I do, but he's my friend. I mean, not any more, with these horrid, complicated confessions, and wedding vows but still!"

"Would it be so bad to love him? Especially since we know he clearly loves you," Sansa said. "What could happen? You're bound to him by marriage anyway."

"It's… complicated."

"Only because you're making it."

[][][][Leopold][][][]

"How goes the search for the poisoner? Is there any news on who tried to kill my daughter and son-in-law?" Ned Stark asked the Prince when they were alone. Girls were unfathomable creatures - it was best to leave them to their own devices.

"There have been a few suspects named, but there's no concrete evidence," Leopold shrugged and picked at the fried eggs on his plate. He watched the yoke ooze when he pierced them.

"Such as?" Ned Stark asked.

"Without evidence confirming their treachery, I can't name them, sir. I would be damaging their honour." It was best to play with language that Lord Stark understood best - language of honour, truth and, best of all, naivety.

"This city has no honourable men," Ned said, bitterly. "Roosters, snakes and rats. Everyone. They care for their purses and their names, but their honour? No. Chivalry is not honour."

"Of whom do you speak, my Lord?" Leopold drank some pomegranate juice.

"Varys. Pycelle. Your uncle Renly. Baelish, probably. Every man of any worth in this city is a scheming backstabber."

"Chivalry is not honour. Chivalry is a pretence, a mask, a show. Chivalry is a mere shadow of honour. Chivalry is the rooster's pride," Leopold said.

Ned Stark's embittered face broke and he chuckled. "I taught you that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Leopold smiled. "I remember."

That seemed to do the trick. Ned Stark opened his arms and heart for the boy and began to tell him all his troubles with being the Hand of the King. The distrust amongst the Small Council, the debt, the King's lack of care or even attendance, the debt and, of course, Jon Arryn's death. It was a marvel what a lonely man could do when he found a friend.

"What were his last words again?" Leopold asked.

"'The seed is strong.'"

"That's very strange." Lord Stark cannot know what they mean. "If you don't mind, my Lord, I can ask some friends of mine for what they know about the death of Jon Arryn. Perhaps they can add something to fit the puzzle."

Leopold could physically see the relief lift from Ned Stark's shoulders. "My boy, I would greatly appreciate that."

With a grin, Leopold clapped his father-in-law's hand and left the man to his peace. The stag, rat and the spider would not have sole custody of the Hand anymore. The lion was let loose into their cage.

[][][][Arya][][][]

It was because of the small, elusive feline that Arya found herself in the dungeons of the Red Keep, crouching under the bones of a fire-breathing creature and listening to the whispers of two fat men.

"He's found one bastard already. He has the book," the bald one said.

"Will the rest come?" The exceedingly fat one asked, though they were both very fat.

"I'm not so sure. The young lion has pounced; seven bastards killed, and a book forged. He's a smart boy. A smart, rich boy with a powerful name."

"But not the right name. Come, come, my friend. Don't tell me you've lost faith in our cause?"

"Not at all. The lions will bring chaos to the kingdom. We simply must intensify the wolf's scent."

"And what will he do when he discovers the truth?"

"The gods alone know. The fools tried to kill his son. What's worse - they botched it. The nuptials were a danger. They should, theoretically, have been a fusion of two bitter houses. But the she-wolf has brought her northern frigidity and the lion has shown signs on weakness to temptation. Their union shall not last. The wolf and the lion will be at each other's throats. We will be at war soon, my friend."

"What good is war now? We're not ready. If one Hand can die, why not a second?"

"This Hand is not the other."

"We need time. Khal Drogo will not make his move until his son is born. You know how these savages are."

"'Delay' you say. "Move fast," I reply. This is no longer a game for two players."

"It never was."

Arya, like any obedient daughter, ran first to her father. Her valuable information was silenced by paternal concerns about her dirty appearance and foul stench.

"They said they were going to kill you!"

"Who did?"

"I didn't see their faces… but I think one was fat!"

"Arya…"

"I'm not lying! They said the wolves were fighting the lions and that you found the bastard and the book and that it was—"The door opened then. Forged, she finished silently.

Jory and a man of the Night's Watch stepped inside. Her father would now give them his full attention. Jory took her by her gently by the elbow.

Huffing, Arya slipped out of Jory's grip and ran to her next option – the husband.

She found Leopold hunched over his study desk. It seemed that there was no more natural habitat for him than a library or an office full of books. He had been conversing with the Grand Maester when she knocked on his study.

"… And what could you tell me of my uncle Renly, my good man?" Leopold said, before she knocked, and he turned his head to her. Whatever words the old man said to him he did not hear. There was a glow that sparked in his eyes when he saw her. A spark not unlike the one her parents gave each other in moments of affection. A spark that her sister, for all her beauty and ladylikeness, would never receive from Joffrey. "Arya? Is something wrong?" Perhaps it was her dirty appearance and huffing breath that caused such sudden attention from him, but something about his unrestricted focus, even when in the company of important men, made her heart flutter. She felt powerful for being able to divert his attention from him with the mere suggestion of endangerment.

"I have something I need to tell you," Arya said, her eyes gesturing at the Grand Maester. Leopold understood.

"Thank you, Grand Maester Pycelle. That will be all for now," Leopold's voice was gentle but firm with the old man.

There was a long and awkward pause of Leopold and Arya staring at each other, waiting for the Grand Maester's to leave, which he was doing with the smallest and slowest possible shuffle of steps.

Arya shut the door behind him, when he was out the door.

"What is it?"

Arya made sure the door was locked. No one would disturb them.

She turned to him and, in a moment of nostalgic desire, grinned wickedly at him. It was like they were children again and she was locking the door of his bedroom to come and tell him her latest mischief before she got punished for it. He only sat back in his chair in an elegant fashion and waited for her tale to unravel.

She hoisted herself up on his desk so that her dangling legs would gently touch his buckled knees. For a moment, she chose to forget that they were married. What she heard was important and she had to tell someone. "I heard something in the dungeons."

"What were you doing in the dungeons?" Leopold asked, incredulous.

Arya sighed, exasperatedly. It was a curse to have a best friend that sounded exactly like her father. "Chasing cats, but that doesn't matter. I heard someone talking. They were scheming."

Leopold indulged her, as an adult would a child. "Oh really? What were they scheming about?"

"They said something about 'the Hand finding the bastard' and 'the savage' and the 'wolves fighting the lions' and something about books and forgery," that certainly made the Prince's face pale, "and something about 'the young lion'."

Leopold sat upright in his chair and shuffled through the papers beside Arya to find a clean piece of parchment and a quill. "Who did you say they were?" His tone was serious. This was serious, just as she had thought.

"Well… there were two men. One of them I think I've seen before—"

"Where?"

"Floating about the castle. He was fat and bald. I forget his name."

"Is he a lord?"

"I think so, but I don't know of what."

"Did he look…. foreign?"

"I think so."

"Lord Varys?"

"Maybe."

"Right… tell me everything you heard."

"Well they talked about the Hand finding the bastard and having a book. Then they said that the young lion forged the book and killed a bastard. Is that supposed to be a clever nickname for you, Lannister? It's not very imaginative if it is. What do they mean by you forging the book and killing a bastard?"

Leopold didn't look up from his scribbling. "Uh… book and bastard must be a code of some sort… like the lion and wolf thing… but, Arya… if you tell me everything you heard, I might be able to piece everything together and tell you what it all means." He breathed deeply after his words.

"Fine. They also talked about how the young lion slowed the wolf and that they'd try to help the wolf's sense of scent... The… Lord Varys one, I think… said how much he admired the young lion's smarts, but then he said something about the lions bringing chaos to the kingdom."

Leopold's quill scorched the parchment with rapid inks. "Uhm. Got it. Anything else?"

"They said something about the she-wolf and something about frigidity." At that, Leopold chuckled, but Arya didn't quite understand why. "They said the lion had shown signs of weakness to temptation." The scribbling stopped, and Leopold stared blankly at the parchment, as if he had forgotten how to write. He was biting his lower lip. Arya grew alarmed. He only ever bit his bottom lip when he was guilty of something. Unlike her, he was not good at guiltlessly committing mischief. Much rather, he found pleasure in listening to hers. "Leo?"

"Anything else I should know?"

She put the thought of her husband possibly doing something guilty aside – Leo always told her his sins. There was another pressing thing that she heard in the dungeons that greatly disturbed her. "They said they were going to kill the Hand."

"They specifically said that they'll kill the Hand."

"Not really, they were more like: why can't the second Hand die?" She waited for him to finish his writing. "What does it all mean, Leo?"

The Prince said nothing. His green eyes melted when he looked at her and he reached out for her hand. It was a gesture of trust. He wanted her to trust him again, like she did before their wedding. Her sister's voice echoed in the back of her mind then: You're making this complicated.

She chose to put her hand in his.

"Listen to me… I won't let anything happen to your family. I promised that once and I intend to keep that promise." His voice had its usual trusting, sternness and his emerald eyes melted with warmth.

Arya choked at the sincerity of his voice and the warmth of his touch. She could not fathom how much she truly missed just being with him, alone, without the pressure that their marriage was incurring on her. How truly lucky she was to have someone brave, gentle and strong love her. How stupid she was to reject these affections when he offered them and hide from them when all she wanted was to be engulfed by them.

"Leo…" She began with purpose, but she didn't know how exactly to ask for that which she wanted.

"Yes?"

"… Can we… Do you think that we could go back to the way we were…. You know… before."

"Before our marriage?"

"Yes."

It was meant to be a peace offering, but he must have interpreted it wrong. Leopold's fingers pinched his eyelids and he tilted his head against the back of his chair. He sighed with exhaustion. He must have thought that she wanted to ignore his confession. "Fine... Whatever you want." His hand slid across his face. "If you want to be completely platonic, be my guest. My grandfather however expects me to have an heir, so I will need to father children from other noble women. Ideally before my father dies so he can legitimise them. I can't really see my brother doing me any favours, can you? You don't mind that, do you? We can be the same platonic friends that we always were, and I will protect you and your family, but I must do my duty."

He sounded exactly like he did that day when they made the deal of their marriage. Perhaps it was a joke for him, but he didn't look like he was teasing her. It broke her heart. That was not what she had meant.

"W-what?" Her voice dried in her throat.

"You will remain Princess Arya Lannister, until I inherit Casterly Rock, by which time you will become Lady Lannister, but you will permit my natural born children to reside in the same household and to inherit my lands and titles after I die. Do these terms seem acceptable to you, friend?"

The desert in her throat became a thunderstorm in her mind. "You… arrogant, selfish bastard!" She vaulted off the desk, smacked his golden chin and, for good measure, kicked his groin. "I hate you!"

Crouching and groaning, Leopold succumbed to the marble floor. "Evidently not," he squeaked out, clutching his balls.

She watched him wriggle below and stood over him, like a menace, until he recovered decency. "I really, really hate you."

"Your aversion to sharing me with another woman says otherwise," he broke into laughter and pushed himself back onto his chair.

"You promised me you wouldn't force me!"

"Am I forcing you?"

"Well… you-your… you're blackmailing me!"

Leopold rolled his eyes, smiling. "I'm hardly blackmailing you. I'm literally giving you a livelihood and respecting your wishes and doing my duty."

"That's not… that's not what I meant when I said what I did."

"Well, what did you mean?"

Words had failed Arya before and they would fail her again. So, she seized the idiotic boy's face and crushed their lips together. Though they'd done this before, they had hardly done it with any passion or ferocity. Arya had something to prove this time. She had so much to tell him.

She wanted this idiot to understand that she did care for him and she did want him. Her lips may have been sloppy and inexperienced and her face covered in the grime from the dungeons, but neither she or he cared much for that. She had something to prove and he had wanted this for far too long to care. Lips crashed, teeth bit and her fingers gripped the golden locks of his head. Somehow, as his arms slithered around her waist, she didn't consider that she might suffocate both of them.

He broke the passion, panting for breath and gasping for words. There were no words that he could say. So instead he grabbed her chin, wrapped his other hand around her waist tightly and closed the gap between their faces again.

A knock interrupted them. Arya was secretly livid, though she only showed mild annoyance. Leopold loudly exclaimed his displeasure. "Someone better be dying!" Leopold yelled as a welcome to their intruder. Over their passion, Arya had found herself on the Prince's lap and embraced by strong arms. Those arms refused to let her get off as the servant tried to open the locked door.

An embarrassed servant's voice came through the cracks of the locked door. "Forgive me, Your Highnesses, but Ser Jaime urgently seeks an immediate private audience with His Highness."

Leopold violently growled. Jaime could not have picked a worse time. He turned to Arya. "I'll be back… immediately."

[][][][Leopold][][][]

Jaime was not in his usual Kingsguard white armour when Leopold found him in the solar of his apartment. His hand was clutched tightly around the hilt of his sword and his convulsive motions radiated his fury. Jaime was fuming.

Leopold, despite his own lust-mad impatience, decided to act with caution. "Uncle Brawn?"

"Catelyn Stark has taken Tyrion. She's on her way North to give him a 'trial', if you can call it a trial," Jaime spat. "I thought the point of your marriage was to bring our families together. To avoid conflict. What do you call this?"

Leopold's head spun violently. "Wait, what?"

"Have I not made myself clear!?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. What has Catelyn Stark taken Tyrion for?"

"Does it matter? I think it's safe to assume that she won't let him go free."

"This… doesn't make any sense."

"There's more… your favourite father-in-law has just resigned from his position as Hand of the King. Apparently, he and Robert disagreed on what to do about Daenerys Targaryen's pregnancy."

"Well that's brilliant. Just let him go North and he'd be out of our way and- oh wait. Tyrion."

"Yes, Tyrion," Jaime huffed in anger. "I'm going to go murder Ned Stark. Just thought you should know that." And just like that Jaime spun on his heels and thundered down the hallway, hand still clutched about his sword.

"Wait, Uncle Brawn! Wait!" Leopold galloped as fast as he could on his crutches. Jaime stopped, thankfully. "You'll start a war if you do this and you'll get Tyrion killed. Don't act impulsively." Leopold's brain spun like a coin flipped in the air. He needed to protect his family, both his families, from each other. "Take him hostage and ride West – the Golden Tooth perhaps – not Casterly Rock. Once word reaches of Lord Stark's capture, Lady Stark will want to exchange Tyrion for Lord Stark, no matter her proposed charges. We can get Tyrion back without starting a war and without infringing the honour of either families."

Truly, all Leopold was thinking was how great it would be if Lord Stark was not in King's Landing. If he was not, he would be unlikely to discover the illegitimacy or continue serving his king. This sudden explosion of chaos was too perfect an opportunity not to nab at.

One could practically see Jaime's rational brain overriding his fury: reason or emotion, Brains or Brawn, wit or sword, peace or war, the choice was difficult to make for the knight, but the man was not stupid - he had come for counsel even when his breast was boiling with rage after all, loath as he was to admit it.

"The king will-" Jaime began to reason, before Leopold interrupted.

"The king will understand the action if Tywin's son is taken hostage, so long as you treat him with honour. The King can also do very little against House Lannister while he's indebted to us. You just told me yourself - Ned Stark is no longer Hand of the King. Capturing him without cause will not be treason. Besides, my father must be livid with Lord Stark right now." Leopold spoke reason, not fury. It was difficult to argue with reason.

"Fine. We'll do it your way-"

"And Uncle Brawn… whatever you do, remember… don't harm him. Lady Stark won't harm her prisoner - she's too honourable for that - and so neither should you. And the King will not take it lightly if he finds his closest friend wounded or in bad condition once the storm of his rage passes."

If Jaime harmed Lord Stark, Leopold's marriage would be doomed just as it was just beginning to blossom.

Jaime wiped his hand across his face. Reason had triumphed over his urge for violence. "Can't make any promises about that last one," he said, mockingly, "But fine. We'll do it your way. I'll round up some men and ride for Casterly Rock. But on one condition: you come with us." Leopold opened his mouth and then closed it. He tilted his head in a manner of questioning his uncle's words. "You're the pacifist and the diplomat. You can make the exchange of hostages and you can stop my sword from falling on Ned Stark's neck the next time he says the word 'honour'."

"Uncle," Leopold said, challengingly. "You're not incompetent. You can do this yourself. A cripple will only slow you down. And, for the sake of my marriage, you cannot incriminate me in this hostage capture." It was almost worth being trampled by a horse to use that card as often as he seemed to. "Besides, I have important things I must do in King's Landing." Leopold began listing them on his fingers. "First, I need to curb Renly's ambitions to prevent a war. Then, I must safeguard my alliance with the Tyrells so that they don't help Renly make a war. Then, I need to make sure Oberyn Martell doesn't murder any of our relatives or bannermen which would result in a war. Fourthly, I must keep watch over Baelish and Varys' schemes, though I suppose if Ned Stark is out of the picture then that is hardly necessary. And finally, if I have time, impregnate my wife with a Lannister Heir before my grandfather murders both of us. So, forgive me if I'm a little busy." Leopold huffed and smoothed his dishevelled hair. "But, Uncle Brawn, you'd be doing me a great favour if you managed to get Lord Stark out of this city and encourage him to continue riding North after the exchange is complete. That would also help me prevent a war."

"I see. As you command, Your Highness," Jaime said mockingly. "I suppose the task of letting Catelyn know that her husband is a hostage is on you, though."

"I'll send a raven once I know it's done." There were two important letters that Leopold needed to write.

[][][][Eddard][][][]

"Pack your things… we're getting out of this wretched city," Ned told Sansa. He had summoned her and her Septa into his office. He himself was packing his own belongings.

"What?!"

"Sansa, don't be—" The Septa began her reprimand.

"I'll hear no more of it. You and I will leave the city tonight while the rest of the household will follow once they're packed." Lord Stark's voice was stern enough for Sansa to know that it was a bad idea to question him.

"I'll go tell Arya to pack up her dancing master then," Sansa curtseyed and was about to make her way out.

"No," Ned stopped her. "Your sister is a Lannister now and Leopold's wife and, of all things, a princess. To take her with us will be treason." It was stupid that Ned couldn't protect his own daughter anymore, but that duty had fallen upon Leopold's the moment the vows were spoken. "Don't worry for your sister. Leo will protect her."

Sansa rolled her eyes. It wasn't her sister's safety that she was worried about. "Lucky." Arya could stay in the capital after all.

When Baelish came to him, willing to give him some further information about the death of Jon Arryn, Ned followed. What he found was a grieved whore facing the loss of her baby - the King's bastard. The little babe had died two night ago of unknown causes and was buried in the ground. The young whore was apparently the last person Jon Arryn had spoken to before he died.

Ned concluded it was a worthless visit.

Hours later, as Lannister men speared his guards and held him at sword point outside Baelish's brothel, he regretted his decision in following the smirking scoundrel who had given him nothing. If he had just taken his daughter and ridden out of the city, he would not be a prisoner. Perhaps prisoner was precisely what Baelish wanted but Ned Stark gave up on trying to understand the man's mind.

Jaime Lannister looked like a victor. The Kingslayer sat proud on his horse with that gleaming, mocking smirk as Ned Stark was being bound by the guards and hoisted on his own horse.

"Get comfortable, Stark. It's a long ride from here to the Golden Tooth." On the leather of the Kingslayers clothes, there was still some of Jory Cassel's blood. The Kingslayer had sliced a knife into the man's eye and skull. Ned distantly recalled that the two had fought together at Pyke, eight years ago.

"My daughter… What will happen to her?" Ned growled, trying to regain reason through his own anger.

"Relax, Stark. I'm sure my nephew will not let any danger occur to either of your precious daughters. The married one is part of the royal family. The unmarried one will become the Crown's ward."

Ned made no sound. He was not looking forward to the long journey with the Kingslayer.

"What do you want with me, Kingslayer?"

"Quite simple, really. My man will let your wife know that you are our hostage and then we can trade you for my brother. It's all, relatively, quite bloodless."

"You butchered my men!"

Jaime shrugged, nonchalantly. "Yes, well, I did say 'relatively'. And they were making your capture quite difficult."

This was going to be a very long journey.

[][][][Leopold][][][]

When Jaime was gone, Leopold breathed sighed in relief. Ned Stark would be out of the city soon enough and the secret of his family would remain a secret. Chaos would be contained. The Lannister family name would remain a sacred, god-like title.

There was another concern pressing on his brains, both the one in his head and below his belt – Arya.

"What did Jaime Lannister want?" Arya asked him, leaning against the door frame. Her body was draped in a piece of cloth that looked horrible enough to be ripped with his bare hands.

Leopold considered her. She would be decimated if… no, when… she found out that her new in-laws had kidnapped her father and it would take a certain level of courtly education and maturity to sympathise with his situation – a kidnapped uncle and a ground-breaking secret. No, Arya was a precious relic for him that he had to shield in his bosom so that she wouldn't hear or learn anything around her. He had to protect her.

"Nothing important. Not more important than where we were," Leopold approached her clumsily on his crutches. He reached her and let his hand trace the lines of her cheekbones. Her face was dirty with the grime of the dungeons and her clothes were pungent with the smell of sweat, but Leopold noticed none of this. "You're so very beautiful."

She blushed a deep red and he took that as the opportunity to lean in and kiss her mouth.

When they collapsed on his bed, tugging at the laces of each other's clothes, Leopold blocked out the things that should have plagued his conscience.

"Will it hurt?" Arya asked, but she may as well have pleaded. He could tell that she was absolutely terrified about this.

"I… don't know. But if it does, tell me and I'll stop," he said as he buried his nose into her hair. "I promise. Do you trust me?" She nodded, after thinking a while. "Then don't be afraid. It'll be fun. I promise. I will never hurt you or let you be hurt." To prove his point, he kissed the hot lobe of her ear.

She tugged at the laces of his doublet and freed him from its confines with clumsy effort. She stripped him of his undershirt as well. Curse the tailor and the seamstress to hell! She beheld the glistening, golden body of a man.

"That's unfair," he chuckled, mockingly, almost evilly, enjoying the thought of her eyes trailing his body. "How come you get to have all the fun?"

Her hands fled to her covered breasts and she blushed profusely. "What if you don't like it?" She was a child after all. She didn't have the woman's parts – only the flower which seeded her marriage. She was always told that she looked like a boy – a blacksmith's son.

Leopold would have none of it. He grabbed each wrist and pulled them apart. "Don't ever hide from me again." His shining emerald eyes gave her those butterflies in her belly that made her realise just how much she cared for him.

She kept her hands where he put them as he tore the poor excuse of a garment from her body. To bear the humiliation, she turned away and shut her eyes. She could not endure his disappointment.

His response was very slow. His eyes gazed upon the flesh that he had secretly pictured in the dark recesses of his mind a thousand times. She wasn't completely naked – the golden wolf pendant with the bezoar extract was around her neck, after all. He relished at the sight for as long as he possibly could. If he could, he would have this body painted so that he could gaze at it at any point of the day or night – but that would be obscene and vulgar.

Seeing her discomfort and fear, he decided to please her. He leant down and trailed his kisses from her neck, placing particular emphasis on the golden wolf pendant, around the small curve of her breast, down her luscious belly and finally to her core. She gasped at the sudden sensation and he smirked from down below.

When he was finished, he crawled up to her level again and kissed her mouth. His eyes, loving and lustful, and his body, ringing from the ache that had engulfed him for eternity, were both ready for the deed.

He began slowly, building speed with caution until each thrust gave an excited burst of ecstasy better than the previous. Their hot, lustful mouths melded with each other. Her moaning of his name became sensual. Her fingers found his broad back and clawed at it with ferocity. Their bodies, pressed together, were at an ungodly temperature, like demons from the fires of hell.

He gave one final thrust and burst, emptied his seed into her garden and flung his body beside hers. He panted with exhaustion and the sweat poured from every pore.

"Well? Did you like it?" He asked, his belly pumping the air through his body, rapidly.

She sat up, abruptly, as if she was not exhausted. "You're really awful at this," she said seriously. His stomach plummeted. His eyes widened. Those were not the words he expected to hear. She leaned over to him, pecked his salty lips and smiled down at him, with mischievous eyes. A loose strand of sweaty hair hung from her head. "You just need more practise."

When she snuggled against him that night, in the comforts of his large arms and welcome scent and they slept without the gaping space between them and the clock began to tick away into the night, Leopold remembered Ned Stark and Jaime and the trouble with Tyrion and Lady Stark. He imagined the betrayal that Arya would feel if she found out and the icy rigidness that he should expect when she would.

He pushed those thoughts away. He had all he wanted in his arms now. Tomorrow's problems would be for tomorrow.


	6. A Foot in Both Camps

[][][][Arya][][][]  
In the cracks of the morning, Arya felt a light stabbing sensation in the depths of her belly and a light buzz in between her legs. Groaning, she turned to tease Leopold about the screaming agonies that his love-making induced only to find his side empty, cold. Sitting up and using the bedsheets to cover her naked body, she looked around their chamber, devoid of any wandering husbands.

The door opened and a servant girl came in, carrying a tray of fruits and morning tea.

“Do you know where the Prince is?” Arya asked her, tugging the duvet cover to her chin. The gold wolf pendant necklace felt cold on her bare skin as she pressed on it.

“Yes, Your Highness. He’s at the hot tubs,” the servant curtseyed and left.

Arya sat pondering the title with which she had been addressed with:Your Highness. It was kind of ridiculous – she couldn’t remember being called ‘my lady’ or ‘your ladyship’, except in mockery. To make the leap from less than lady to Her Highness seemed absurd.

She quickly became aware of the state that she was in. Hair was dirty, her skin smudged and a heavy smell of sweat radiated from her person. It was a wonder that Leopold even wanted to make love to a thing such as she. Somehow, inexplicably, tears began to well upon her face as flashes of instances in the past exploded in Arya’s mind of her mother scolding her for her untidy frock or dirty hands or scrapes around her knees and elbows. The look of disapproval from her mother and sister were firmly imprinted upon her brain. Her mother thought she was inhuman when she didn’t act like a lady, which was never. 

Wiping those tears away and kicking herself for letting her emotions to overpower her, Arya decided that a bath was a good idea. With speed, she dressed herself and stole away to the bathtubs.

Leopold was there, sprawled like a cat basking in the sunshine. The heat of the water when she dipped her toe was unbearably scalding and she couldn’t fathom how Leopold entered one and seemed positively relaxed.

“The sleeping beauty has awoken,” he teased, sinking deeper into his tub. “What a pleasant visit.”

“How are you not roasting?” Arya asked, ignoring the creeping blush on her face. The heat, she said to herself, it was the heat making me flush. She noticed that all of Leopold’s clothes were discarded on a nearby bench.

“This is a normal heat. You’re just… a northerner,” Leopold sighed and then, suddenly, splashed some of the kettle boiled water into her face. “And not used to it. Just climb in.” She regarded the water with caution, eyes flickering dangerously to Leopold’s naked body. “You’re not shy, are you? I thought we passed that boundary last night.”

Arya huffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Leopold laughed and it was a sound that Arya could listen to all day. “Come on, come to me. Join your husband in the hot tub. It’ll be our first of many mutual hot baths.” His grin was wicked, full of lust and devious intentions, but that somehow did not scare her as it once might have done.

She returned the wicked smirk, as if taking him up on his challenge. She made a move for the straps of her clothes and saw the anticipation in his eyes. With agonising slowness she worked her way free of the bindings, all whilst watching the hungry body of the Prince nearing ever closer to her, like a moth to a flame. Just as she was about to pull the cloth from her shoulder and reveal her nakedness, a foot dipped into the water and kicked hard sending a torrent of scalding water at the famished, lust-mad boy.

She laughed loudly at his water-drenched, disappointed face and clutched her knees to hold herself. It was too good of a justice.

“You wicked little witch,” Leopold growled, clearing his eyes from the blast.

“You should have seen your face… priceless,” Arya clapped her hands.

“There is just no taming you, is there?” Leopold japed, but Arya’s mind raced to a moment in time when her mother lashed at her angrily about her wilful nature and her stubborn unladylike manner. She pushed them away but not before Leopold witnessed he look of sadness in her face. “What’s wrong?” His gentle, green eyes pleaded with her soul to tell him.

“Why do you like me? Why did you choose me? I’m sure my father would have obliged you if you said you wanted to marry Sansa or why not marry Margaery Tyrell or Arianne Martell? What is the real reason that you chose me.” Her voice became very small and insignificant. 

“Arya…” Leopold sighed and rubbed his eyes. She annoyed him when she became doubtful of herself. “Let me educate you about the perplexing mind of men. There are two kinds of women that men love:” He looked around the bathing rooms for something and found it in a bar of soap and an elaborate bottle of perfume. He held up the soap, “the noble, virgin lady.” He held up the bottle, “and the rebellious, wilful mistress.” He put the bottle down and gave his full attention to the bar of soap. “The lady is proper, old-fashioned, sturdy. She’s pure and a virgin, even when she has been bedded. She’s a naïve creature that can be moulded in the hands of any man. Many love her. She reminds them of proper society and manners and their proper ladylike mothers. Men of tradition might worship her.” He tossed the bar of soap overhead and it landed with a plop somewhere in the depths of another bath tub.. “She’s as boring as soap and just as dispensable. Men can use her as they please and then cast her out or replace her with another. She’s the standard. She’s as common as copper and she is inside as she is on the outside.” He picked up the bottle of perfume. “This, however, is an entirely different creature – the mistress.” He opened the lid and smelled it. “Spicy, aromatic, exquisite.” He put the bottle to Arya’s nose, so she could smell it. “Expensive, by the way. You don’t throw this one away because she’s precious and unique and you spent a lot of effort on acquiring her. She’s not to everyone’s taste – perfumes rarely are – but you find the right mould for the right person. Both the bottle and the contents in its depths are fascinating to look at and even when the perfume is finished and used, you still keep her.” He put the bottle in Arya’s hand. “Did you get any of that?”

“All that really told me was that you like this perfume bottle,” Arya said, putting it beside the hot tub.

“Yes,” Leopold’s eyes looked directly at Arya. “Yes, I do. This particular perfume bottle who is interesting and exquisite. The aroma is not bland and boring and I’ll never tire of it.” He broke his gaze. “Though if you continue this without taking a bath, the perfume scent will become an odour.” He pushed himself back, spreading his arms and letting the water sprout across the edges of the bathtub. “Come on, the water is cooler now.”

Arya’s toe reported back that it was true. Carefully, she removed her layers, still awkward at the idea of stripping to the bone but doing it nonetheless, and entered the water. She found his body in the water and cradled it to herself. She breathed in his smell and realised how much she truly did love him.

The two of them made love to each other with a passion that morning, midday and afternoon.

[][][][Leopold][][][]

It was like a dream come true: to cradle the girl that one had fantasised about for years in one’s arms unashamedly and to kiss her as often as one pleased. It was by the time the sun was setting down that a knock disturbed a lustful Prince and his Princess Consort.

Myrcella walked in, unabashed by her brother’s nakedness or her goodsister’s residence under the bed covers. 

“Sister! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit.” To all who knew him and all that didn’t, Leopold could have delivered the aspect of the happiest man in the world. His grin was brighter than the sun and his eyes danced with mirth.

Myrcella, slightly baffled by her brother’s joyous mood, looked at Arya and was baffled no more. “Mother sent me. She’s ordered a family dinner. Father will be there… and Joffrey--”

“Must you ruin a perfectly good mood?”

“You are both required to attend. Mother was specific - it is non-negotiable. She sent me to dress your wife. She wanted me to deliver these wonderful dresses to the newest member of the Lannister family,” the Princess clapped her hands and some servants rolled in a whole wardrobe into the room. Arya sat up in the bed, horrified by the sight and prospect. Leopold, on the other hand, ground his teeth: his mother had sent Myrcella so that Arya wouldn’t embarrass the family.

“That’s very generous of our mother. I must admit I haven’t thought generosity to be virtue of our dear mother,” Leopold sat upright in his chair, stretching out his mangled legs.

“Yes, yes, all very shocking. Now, if you could vacate the room, dear brother, we would both appreciate it very much.” There was such assertiveness and royalty in the girl’s character. She was a born Princess and when she married it seemed as if it would be impossible for her to simply adjust to the title of a mere Lady.

The Prince smirked and put his hands behind his head. “These are my chambers. I’ll leave when I please and it does not please me to do so. You can dress… or undress for that matter... my wife in my presence.” He sat comfortably in his chair, as if preparing for a show.

“You’re such a pervert,” Myrcella tutted and turned to face Arya. It seemed the Princess was in no mood to argue with her brother. “I don’t envy you having to put up with him. Now, up you get. We have a lot of dresses to get through.”

Myrcella should have been commended for her efforts and talents because it took a certain kind of woman to force Arya Stark into a dress of crimson and gold and to maintain the pleasant mood of the room. Arya was dragged out of bed by the power of smooth words and dressed in crimsons with gentle hands.

Within an hour, Arya stood before Leopold’s gazing eyes like the Lannister Princess that she was supposed be. Myrcella nodded at her efforts and turned to the resident prince. “Don’t undo all my work, brother,” she smirked wickedly and made her way out. “You are both expected in an hour.” The door slammed behind her.

Leopold grinned at his wife. “Crimson and gold becomes you—”

“Shut up!”

Leopold laughed. “You should wear dresses more often—”

“I mean in, Leo… I will deck you if you do not shut up!”

[][][][Myrcella][][][]

Myrcella was a girl plagued by brothers. Three golden lions and at least two of them wanted to make a field of crimson with the blood of the other. Leopold and Joffrey didn’t have enough time to enter the room where the royal family dined before someone broke all masks of politeness and struck a deadly blow.

“Brother, your wife looks radiant this evening. Can’t say I have many opportunities to say those words,” Joffrey, as always, liked a fight. He was standing by the entrance, evidently waiting for Leopold to come trotting with his wife by his side. Myrcella herself was coming from the opposite direction of the corridor when she heard the snide remark.

Once again, Myrcella reassured herself that her reasons for favouring the youngest of the brood were completely justified, though the excited squeal in her belly when her eyes landed upon Leopold negated those reasons.

“Joffrey!” Robert bellowed, hearing the words from inside the dinner room. “Here! Now!”

“Better run and do as Father says, Your Royal Highness. You’re not likely to boast of many other achievements, other than running and doing as our parents say, eh?”

Joffrey gave a glare before coming to Robert’s side. Myrcella rolled her eyes.

“Do you always have to do that? It’s not going to make anyone’s life any easier when he’s king and you’re Lord Lannister.”

“No. There’ll be a war. I don’t deny it.” Leopold said, passively, and turned to his sister with sharp eyes. “And you better know whose side you’re on.”

Myrcella huffed in exhaustion – her brothers couldn’t go to war against each other. “Maybe I will.” She giggled, swept a hand across Leopold’s tense bicep and wandered into the Dinner Room.

Their father’s finest chef had prepared the dinner – a roasted duck layered with plum sauces, a pig that was cooked on a spit with an apple shoved in its mouth and a fine grilled rooster. It was perhaps a bit extravagant for a family of seven, but royalty rarely ate in small quantities. A jolly flutist entertained their ears from the corner of the room, but other than the sound of his instrument the air was silent. It seemed that no one had anything to say. Joffrey and Leopold seemed to lock themselves in their silence, as if preventing violent danger from erupting if they allowed themselves the ability to speak. Tommen, who sat in between his two older brothers, was too afraid to say anything. Arya Stark was awkward in her dress and her position in their family. Mother and Father hardly ever spoke to each other. That left conversation on Myrcella’s shoulders.

“So… Father… how has your day been?” An awkward question to ask for a daughter to a father who the servants whispered spent his whole day drinking, eating and whoring.

“Terrible. Your golden uncle Jaime has pulled an unbelievable stunt on—”

“Uncle Jaime pulls off all sorts of foolish stunts very often, why shine light on them?” Leopold suddenly interrupted, glaring at his duck leg as if it had called his mother a whore.

Robert laughed. “While I agree with you, Lannister, I ask you what the hell the damn idiot was thinking—”

Cersei interjected with a stern face. “Robert, please my love, do not talk ill of my blood—”

“I’ll talk about the Kingslayer however I like!” Robert thundered. The musician stopped his playing and the room was eerily silent. He turned to Leopold. “Have you told your wife about what your uncle has done?!”

Leopold breathed deeply. “I’m afraid I don’t know what specifically my uncle has done this time, Father.” Myrcella noticed the deep breath – he lied. When they were children, she had noticed what each of her brothers did when they lied. Leopold sighed deeply, Joffrey made a peculiar twisted smile and Tommen’s eyes wandered around the room. It seemed that her goodsister was also aware of Leopold’s weaknesses, for she turned sharply at her husband with accusing eyes.

“Taken Ned Stark captive and ridden off for Casterly Rock!” Robert yelled across the table.

So much for a peaceful family dinner, thought Myrcella, wiping her face. Her appetite was now officially ruined.

“My father has been taken?” Arya sat up in her chair, looking at the king in shock. This was news.

“Your husband didn’t tell you? Yesterday, Jaime Lannister rode up to Ned Stark, killed the guards and rode off with a prisoner.”

Leopold face was a puzzle of pretended ignorance. “And what provoked such an action from my uncle, do you know, Father?” His eyes, traitorously, flickered to his wife, who was building her anger from the debris of shattered shock.

Robert sat back in his chair. “Lady Catelyn has taken the Imp. Varys told me she rides for the Eyrie.”

“The Eyrie?” Leopold blanched in genuine shock. That was not what he was anticipating, evidently. “What is there in the Eyrie?... Ah, her sister… Lady Arryn.”

“The mad Lady Arryn,” Cersei corrected him, picking at her food. “My younger brother is as good as dead in her castle. Jaime was fully justified.” A lack of awareness of the people at the table was the Queen’s certain speciality.

“Justified?!” Robert yelled at her.

Arya stood. “May I be excused?” She did not wait for Robert to answer and thundered out of the room. There was rage on her face.

There was silence for a few moments amongst the Royal Family before Robert spoke again. He spoke to Leopold. “Write to your bloody relatives in Casterly Rock, Lannister. Demand the release of the Hand of the King! Yes, write that in the letter and send the bloody badge with the raven.” Robert took the badge from his pocket and threw it across the table.

“With all due respect, your grace, the Starks… and their relatives… hold a Lannister prisoner. If we could agree to an exchange, then all conflict would be soothed. I’m sure my uncle and grandfather would be more than happy to exchange Lord Stark for Lord Tyrion.”

Robert laughed. “Ha! I knew Jaime’s skull didn’t have the brains to make such a move with Lord Stark. If he killed or stabbed Ned through the leg in the streets, then I’d have believed it. But when the Spider and Baelish came crawling to me, telling me that Lord Stark was taken hostage in response to that Imp’s capture – I didn’t believe it. I knew it was you who had done it. How dare you? Lord Stark raised you in his castle. He’s your goodfather!” Robert screamed and slammed the table with a heavy fist. “You ungrateful brat! Get out of my sight! If that is how you treat your goodfather, then I have no desire to have you for a son!”

Myrcella was shocked – Leopold was always the favourite. To incur their Father’s wrath was easy, but for Leopold to do so? That was new. She looked across the table to see Joffrey’s gleeful face, bouncing in his seat from excitement. Their golden brother had displeased someone!

“As you command, your grace,” Leopold’s jaw stretched with displeasure as he said the words. He stood up, took his crutches and galloped out of the Dinner Room. It was not an easy burden to have two families.

[][][][Robb][][][]

Being a lord was often a boring job, Robb thought. Sitting in the great hall and in his father’s seat, with Maester Luwin and Sir Roderick Cassel by his sides, Robb administered the matters of the common folk.

How much grain did this farmer yield? What punishment to incur upon the peasant boy who stole a chicken from the neighbour’s farm? How many stonemasons could Winterfell give to help repair a crumbling stronghold?

Robb didn’t understand why he was there. Yes, he was acting Lord of Winterfell, but all the matters were answered by either Luwin or Sir Roderick anyway who knew the details of the castle and its people. Robb’s role was formal assent.

Of course, this was not the first time that Robb realised that his role would sometimes be boring. Two years previously, his father had left the castle to his care as he rode off to visit one of his bannermen. Robb was instructed to perform the same duties he was observing now only then Leopold Lannister had joined him. His claim was that he wanted to witness the day-to-day cares of lordship and so he sat with the acting Lord of Winterfell for five hours until all the people were pacified. Throughout the whole five hours, Leopold could not stop making stupid jokes and puns on the poor people who sought Robb’s judgement. It drove Roderick, who already had little love for the Lannister cripple, mad with wroth, but ensured Robb’s smile and amusement.

Now, the funny Lannister Heir was hundreds of miles away and the two men on either of Robb’s sides were as stoic as stone.

Suddenly, Theon entered the Great Hall with a raven on his arm. “A letter from our golden Prince,” Theon said, grimly. Robb dimly remembered the rivalry that Theon and Leopold developed for the love of their mutual foster father. Two Princes of two Kings in one castle was a grumbling arrangement.

Robb opened the letter and read.

Dear Robb,  
I write to you with urgency. Your father was abruptly captured by my uncle, Sir Jaime, yesterevening after he renounced the title of Hand of the King. These were my uncle’s actions in response to your mother’s capture of my other uncle, Lord Tyrion, in the Riverlands a week prior. He had charged me with the mission of informing you and your family of the news before he departed. I couldn’t stop him. He has told me to deliver these terms for you: agree to exchange Lord Tyrion with Lord Stark and no blood will be shed and no hard feelings between our houses will be kept. House Lannister will not tolerate the capture of its members.  
Please agree to the terms, Robb. I don’t know for what reasons Lady Stark has captured my uncle and I do not approve of the capture of Lord Stark, but in this matter, I have no power. Both parties are miles away and will not listen to my entreaties. I will protect your sisters as best as possible, but the destiny of your father is on your shoulders.  
Your friend,  
LL.

Robb acted quickly, even with his mind reeling. He sent the common people away and ordered Luwin to draft a letter to the Eyrie to inform his mother of the present situation.

“The Lannisters need to pay for this!” Theon yelled out, once the Maester was sent on his charge. “They’ve taken hostage the Warden of the North. If that’s not a call to arms I don’t know what is.”

“Are you saying I should raise an army and march on Casterly Rock?”

“You’re not a boy anymore! They captured your father. They’ve already started the war.”

“If I march, they’ll kill him.”

“Not if your mother still has the dwarf.”

“Which we don’t know, do we?” Robb bit back. He sighed and rubbed his eyes in fatigue. “Leo is my goodbrother and he’s also my friend – I can’t go to war with his family. Let’s settle this… diplomatically, if we can.”

[][][][Jaime][][][]

It was somewhere near Silverhill, with a mere half a day’s ride to the Golden Tooth, that disaster happened. The Lannister plot collapsed. Its chief destroyer was Jaime Lannister’s desire to taunt his stoic captive.

“I do hope those ropes are not too tight for you, Lord Stark?” Jaime said with a smile, when Ned Stark remained silent. “Ah, the northern vow of silence and solemnity. Tell me Stark, do you ever lighten up?”

The Lord’s response was more silence.

“I do wonder, Stark, what provoked your wife to capture my brother? Could the legends of his mastery of pleasing whores have anything to do with it, I wonder,” Jaime asked, grinning like madman at his bounty. To have the lord who professed you for a Kingslayer and oath-breaker as your prisoner was divine justice.

“To answer for the crimes of your family – the attempted murder of my son, Bran.”

“Ah? And you’re so sure that my little brother tried to push your brat from a window?” Jaime grinned with a self-satisfied grin. He thought himself smug.

“How do you know the crime that he is accused of was pushing him from a window?” Eddard asked. Suddenly, the horses stopped. “What made you think that my son was shoved ‘from a window’? How could you possibly know that?”

Jaime Lannister, for the first time in Eddard Stark’s memory, scrabbled for words, which betrayed his guilt. “Well, I- I- assumed that… what I know of your son’s calamities it is that he fell from a tower and if you are accusing my brother of conspiracy then he would have had to be in that tower—”

“It was you, wasn’t it?!” Eddard roared. Lannister’s nose was as good place to punch as any, Eddard thought, swivelling in his saddle to charge at the golden knight, even if his hands were bound together. “I will kill you, Kingslayer!”

Guards reached Eddard Stark before he could reach the knight and subdued the blood-lustful lord. They bound the Northern lord with tighter ropes and hoisted him on another soldier’s horse, depriving him of any possible liberty. The wolf was caged for now, but could he ever be released now?

Jaime slicked back his hair and looked at the screaming, vengeful lord that was tied to the horse. His son’s plan had failed. Even if Lord Stark could be traded for Tyrion, he could not be allowed to go free with the knowledge of his involvement of the boy’s fall. What on earth possessed him to taunt the Stark?! Why did his words tumble out so inelegantly!? Why did he have to be so bloody smug?!

A soldier rode up to Jaime’s side. “Sir, shall I knock Lord Stark out? He won’t remember a thing.”

“You can try, but don’t kill him. I need him alive,” said Jaime. He wanted the soldier ride to Lord Stark’s thrashing body and give him a right good knock with the hilt of his sword. The screams of promised murder were one problem that Jaime no longer had to face; the second came riding up to their party soon enough.

“Ser Gregor! Where is it that you and your men are going?” Jaime asked the hulking figure of a man on his horse. “Is there another tourney in the city?”

“Lord Tywin has commanded us to pillage and ransack of the Riverlands to remind that Tully bitch that it was a Lannister she picked off the road and rode off with.”

“Ah!” Jaime cursed the gods under his breath. “Did my nephew’s letter never reach my father then? About the exchange of prisoners.”

“Aye, ser Jaime, it has. Lord Tywin hopes that the Tully bitch will start thinking faster about trading the Imp for the Lord if her homelands are ablaze.” Gregor looked past Jaime to see the limp body of Eddard Stark on a horse. “Is he dead?”

“I hope not.”

“Lord Tywin has also ordered for you to send your prisoner to Casterly Rock, not the Golden Tooth. He was very clear on his instructions.”

He couldn’t defy his father’s direct orders. He had to ride for Casterly Rock now. No fortress in the Westerlands would allow them to keep Eddard Stark captive.

With the Riverlands aflame, Lord Stark knowing about his involvement with that stupid son of his and Tywin’s overbearing influence, his son’s plan for diplomacy crumbled before Jaime’s very eyes.

[][][][Leopold][][][]

“What do you want?” Leopold bitterly addressed his mother.

A fortnight had gone by without a word from Jaime, Robb or Catelyn Stark and the Capital was a trying place to be in. Arya was not giving him any easier a time. He was tried and annoyed and the last thing he wanted was to be brought to the palace gardens on the whims of his mother.

“There’s no need to address me with such rudeness, Leopold,” Cersei rose from her seat on a marble bench. “I haven’t done any harm to you,” she said in that stern voice that only mothers can masterfully command.

“Forgive me. I haven’t slept well.”

Cersei found her way to her son’s bicep and clung to him, despite the discomfort that his crutches presented. “Your wife is not accommodating? Is married life not what you expected?” She said, strangely huskily. She seemed to gain a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that her son was unhappy in the marriage with the girl that he had coveted for so long.

Leopold looked away. “She won’t see me. She blames me for her father’s capture.” He paused. “We haven’t shared a bed in days and when I do enter our chambers I’m greeted with the coldest of stares. It’s easier to send a servant for my belongings and to find quarters in some other place.”

“Yes, my people have informed me of this.” Cersei avoided looking at him, as if she knew something that Leopold didn’t. He didn’t pursue the subject. “I’m sure she will return to your affections quite soon.”

“Have your people told you anything about Tyrion’s situation?” She was the Queen – she would have people all over the kingdom informing her.

Cersei turned on her son, angrily. “You shouldn’t have interfered with the affair! You should have let your grandfather deal with the situation and I’m furious with Jaime that he allowed himself to be manipulated by you.”

“Jaime, unlike my grandfather or you, seeks to save Tyrion, rather than the family honour. If my grandfather begins burning down the Riverlands, Tyrion’s throat will be sliced open with a knife.” There was an unspoken Precisely in Cersei’s demeanor that both parties heard. Leopold jolted his arm out of her grips under the pretence of needing it for the crutch. The closeness to his mother had become uncomfortable. “What did you ask me here for?”

Cersei pretended not to be affronted by his rejection of her warmth and closeness. “I believe it is time that I taught you about how to survive in the Great Game. Specifically, how to gain certain friends at court.”

“Spies.”

“Call them what you wish.”

“Will Joffrey be getting a similar lesson?” Leopold grumbled. Knowledge was invaluable, but if his brother knew it as well, it would feel tainted. Luckily for the scholar prince, Joffrey could not lay claim to much knowledge.

“Later, perhaps. He’s a bit busy.”

“Doing what? Torturing kittens?”

“Courting your goodsister. I don’t want a war with the Starks, despite what you might believe. I want my children to inherit the whole seven kingdoms and to be safe. The North is the largest of those kingdoms. He must marry the Stark girl.” Cersei said.

“Because that requires so much effort on his part,” Leopold said, rolling his eyes. When compared to his own list of struggles that involved Renly, the Tyrells, Oberyn Martell, the king’s councillors and most of all, the Starks, Joffrey seemed like he was being lazy his duties to the family.

“It does. Now, let us see some candidates for your friendship.” Sweetly, Cersei dragged him to the throne room.

The King was on the Iron Throne, addressing the concerns of his people – a rare sight, Leopold thought. He had hardly seen Robert on the Iron Throne when he was a boy, much less as an adolescent. There were hundreds lined up with addresses to him and for once Leopold sympathised with his father on his duties. Being a King looked like a terrible pastime for a man born to fight, hunt and fuck.

Cersei led Leopold through the galleries and together they observed the courtiers lining up for Robert’s favour. “There’s something important you need to understand about friends. As a Lannister, you must inspire fear. Hold leverage over them and they will never betray you. The Prince who is feared will be served longer and better than the Prince who is loved.” Leopold thought he’d recognised those words from a book by a retired politician from one of the Free cities, but somehow he doubted his mother greatly enjoyed the company of books.

Cersei summoned a servant with the wave of her hand and told them to bring a courtier that she pointed out to her presence, discreetly.

“But, Mother, I’m not a particularly fear-inspiring figure—” She heard none of it. She was busy acquainting herself with Lord Wyntworth.

Lord Wyntworth was a minor lord from the Crownlands who had come to the capital to beg his king of a financial favour. The drunken waft of his breath implied the cause of his financial burdens. He had his adolescent son and heir with him, dutiful standing by his elbow.

“That’s a very long line of those seeking my husband’s attention, my lord.” Cersei turned her body to look at the line and to stop the foul odours of Lord Wyntworth from hitting her face. “He might not have enough time to see you. And I would think that your debts are quite immediate. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Prince Leopold here is the favourite son of the king. He may have some inclination to help his father’s bannerman, wouldn’t you, Leopold?” Struck unaware, Leopold conceded. He was quite confused about what his mother was doing. Kindness was not her virtue.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the man nearly burst into tears. “You are very generous.” The drunk bent down and kissed the Prince’s golden lion ring.

“Of course, my son will need reassurance that you will return the debt, doesn’t he?” Cersei smiled. “You know how we Lannisters regard debts, don’t you, my lord?”

“Of course, your graces,” the man bowed low.

“Your son… is he literate?” Cersei asked, looking at the shy, bowing youth by his father’s side.

“Yes, your grace.”

Cersei grabbed the boy’s chin to force him to look into her eyes. Leopold saw how the poor boy’s hands shook with fear. “Are you loyal to your father? Do you love your family, boy? Do love your father?”

His eyes bulged with surprise. “Yes, of course.”

The serpent showed her glistening, venomous fruits. “What if I told you I would make you lord of your family’s lands if you forfeit your love for your father?” Cersei’s face took on a shade of cruelty. Her cold gaze did not swerve to Lord Wyntworth.

“I… am grateful for the offer, your grace, but I am true to my father and family.” The boy remained true and noble; a brave young man. Leopold thought his mother would destroy him for it.

Cersei’s grip of his chin remained firm. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Leofrick Wyntworth, your grace.”

Cersei smirked, let go and turned to Lord Wyntworth. “You have an amiable son, my lord. Something we both share. My son will grant you your loan of 2,000 silver stags, but to secure the debt I will have to ask your amiable son to assist my amiable son.”

“Be a hostage?” Lord Wyntworth hardly looked pleased at the prospect.

“More of a squire,” Cersei smiled at the young man. “His unbending loyalty to his family will be most useful in motivating you to repay your debts and consider all the privileges that he will gain by being so close to the royal family. I would think this is a most generous offer, Wyntworth.”

“Yes, of course, your grace,” the thirsty lord bent low and kissed his Queen’s hand. Both son and father vanished from sight.

Leopold bent his head. “I wish you didn’t do that.”

“Do what? Getting you a servant? Call it a demonstration so you would know how to do it in the future.” Cersei grinned to herself; a proud mother lioness teaching her cub how to hunt its prey.

“I meant using his loyalty. It was pure and good until you botched it. He was doing you no harm,” Leopold grumbled.

“Listen to me, Leopold. All the qualities that the Starks have ingrained in you – loyalty, honour, nobility, charity – it’s all useless. Let me tell you story that my father once told me. It’s a popular fable in our family,” Cersei stroked her son’s golden head as the two watched the people below. “There once was a fisherman who went out to sea in his boat, carrying all his worldly possessions with him. He took his Honour, his Faith, his Family, his golden Fortunes, his Moral Code and his Health. There they were – all seven in the boat in an ocean that spread as far as the eye could see. Then the fisherman caught a large fish – fat and plump and worth a fortune, but then the boat began to sink because it was too heavy. The fisherman’s worldly possessions weighed him down. The only way to save the boat was to start throwing things off it. He chose to throw his Honour first, for what good is it in a vast ocean. Then he caught another fish and faced a similar problem – chucked Faith, for clearly the gods don’t care for him if they will let him drown. When he caught the third fish, he threw away his Moral Code for he did not need moral principles without gods or indeed at sea. When he was satisfied with his catch, he swam back to shore with all that he needed, while his Honour, Faith and Moral Code floated into the abyss.”

“And the moral of that story?” Leopold asked, unimpressed by his mother’s ability for telling tales. One would have thought her to be of greater ability to make believe.

“We throw overboard the qualities that we don’t need when they weigh on us. Honour, Faith and Morality are pretty principles, but they’re heavy and worthless. You, my son, will lose them when a big, plump fish begins weighing down your boat.”

“I still don’t see how this story relates to that boy,” Leopold said.

“Quite simple – he doesn’t have a fish.”

[][][][Catelyn][][][]

With the letter from Winterfell so firmly clutched between her fingers, Catelyn Stark’s body shook. The emotion was difficult to name - fear, shock and despair spiralled together violently. Most clear though was her anger - her rage at the Lannisters, her fury at Ned, but most of all the fire in her belly flared at her sister, Lysa.

“I’m sorry, Cat. I can’t release the Imp because the Lannisters might have captured your husband. I’m the Lady of the Vale and I can’t afford to look weak in front of the Knights of the Vale. You and I have claimed that Tyrion Lannister had murdered Jon Arryn - it would look quite stupid if we took our words back,” Lysa grinned, wickedly, knowing that her words hurt her sister deeply. Lysa Arryn had turned into a bitter woman - if she couldn’t have a fine husband, her sister would lose hers.

Catelyn lips acted faster than her brain; anger breaking all sorts of superficial barriers. “It looks quite stupid when a 10 year old suckles your breast.” That certainly got Lysa out of her wicked pleasure. “Have you no shame to think of your appearances, when our homeland is being burnt to the ground and will continue to be?” Catelyn flung the letter from Edmure at her sister. Their brother was writing to tell them that Lord Tywin had sent his mad dog to escalate Catelyn’s decisions to trade Ned for Tyrion. 

Lysa’s eyes turned vicious and she stood up straight and tall to tower of her sister, not in height but in person. She looked menacing. “Have I no shame?! Your daughter is married to the Lannister Heir! Is she incapable of performing her duties to her family? Have you not taught her properly? It is your fault that our father’s lands are burning! You should have thought about that before you captured that damnable, loathsome creature! And I would hear an apology from you, cold heartless bitch! You don’t know what it is like to lose a child! You’ve never miscarried! All of your children are fine and healthy and you’ll never lose them! Robin is the only one I have left in this world!” Lysa broke then. She surrendered to the floor in tears, clutching at her heart and cursing the gods for punishing her. 

The anger left Catelyn’s features. It was unfair that her sister should suffer so much, while she lived in comfort to know that her sons were all alive, even if Bran was infirm, and that her daughters were healthy, even if alone in the capital, and that her beloved Ned still drew breath, even if in Lannister lands. She knelt by her sister and soothed the cries of a miserable woman.

She hoped their heads would be clearer on the morrow, when the Imp’s trial would begin. 

It did not. Lysa was hellbent on killing the dwarf. She had become consumed with the idea that he had killed Jon Arryn. Funny that, Catelyn thought, she had never seemed that ardent about her husband before.

“I demand a trial by combat and I name my champion Jaime Lannister,” the Imp grinned at the helpless ladies. 

Catelyn saw opportunity for her cause and leaned in to whisper into Lysa’s hear, overshadowed by the screams of her nephew to let the bad man fly! 

“Let him have this. We could ride to the Riverlands and have the Kingslayer fight your champion. If the Kingslayer wins, I can have Ned back and the Riverlands won’t burn. If your champion wins, Tywin Lannister will lose two sons, but in accordance with the law.”

Lysa turned on her, vicious and blood-lustful. “The trial will be today!” The whole Eyrie echoed her commanding shrieks.

A lowly sellsword from her company volunteered his services for the dwarf and Lysa made sure to choose her most honourable knight – Ser Vardis – as her own champion. Honour proved to be a bad quality to look for when choosing a champion, as the victorious sellsword told them when he sent Ser Vardis down the Moon Door. 

The Imp walked out of the Eyrie a free man and Catelyn had allowed her valuable hostage to slip through her fingers, while her husband rotted in a golden prison. There was no honourable law that allowed Catelyn to detain the Imp – the gods themselves deemed him innocent. Catelyn had been defeated.

[][][][Willas][][][]

The friendship of a Prince was a dangerous thing to possess, especially when coupled with the love of a brother. There was no one who knew that better than the Heir of Highgarden.

Mere hours before, the Lannister Prince had approached him to tell him a joke that did not make Willas laugh:

“What do you call the crowned stag in a bed of roses?”

“What?”

“Dinner… for the lions.”

“I see.”

“What, not amusing? Neither do I to be honest and I like to laugh. Does money grow on trees for Tyrells?”

“My brother thinks it does. I’ll talk to him.”

“So what if we lose 2 million gold dragons? If Renly becomes King, we can have all the gold that we desire. If we have him marry Margaery, we will be the Crown, Will,” Loras told his brother as they were sitting in the gardens of the Red Keep.

Loras was polishing his sword, a beautiful flowery thing. Willas was sipping rose petal tea and looking over his shoulder. There could be ears in the shrubs and eyes in the trees for all the Tyrell brothers knew. Loras, pretty and pompous as he was, didn’t seem to care who heard him or didn’t. 

“If we have him marry Margaery, she and he will be the Crown, not you,” Willas said, sternly, sipping the tea from the rose cup. Willas heard him, but only shrugged. He could live with that, he supposed. “We can’t betray our interests with the Lannisters. They have our gold.” Willas decided to strike his brother where it hurt. “If we let them have our gold, to keep everything running smoothly, I will have to severely cut down your allowance for compensation. Will Lord Renly sponsor your pretty armour or cloak of bluebells?”

Loras shrugged, unphased, and continued to sharpen his blade. “Just imagine, brother, how splendid Renly will look as King. A noble, kind King who cares for the welfare of his people and not-“ Loras wriggled his nose, “how best to drink, feast and whore their petty livelihoods away.”

Willas sighed. “Need I remind you that when the King drinks and feasts, he puts coin in our family’s coffers for the wine and the boar?” Their family had paid dearly for Robert’s Rebellion after surrender, but their coins had quickly found their way back to them once Robert ate them away.

Loras rolled his eyes. Poor boy, thought Willas, he is in love. Loras had lost his head. Mace Tyrell had given his youngest son the task of making a friend of the King’s brother when he secured him as Renly’s squire, so that Renly would rely on the friendship of House Tyrell, not to become so enamoured by him that he lost all his wits.

“Loras, listen to me. Our family can’t bear the brunt of the ambitions that Renly holds. If he wishes to go to war with his nephew, he will have to do so with his own 30,000 Stormlander troops. Tell him that Lord Mace will be happy to sell him supplies such as foods, ships and other commodities that are native to our lands. We can even give him a generous loan with a small percent of interest – solely for the love that you bear him - but we cannot commit men to his cause. At least, not for two years – less even, a year and 3/4.”

Loras sighed. “Fine… but I warn you. Renly has got it in his head that he wants to be king. It will not be easy to dissuade him.”

Willas sat back in his seat and grinned. He finished the remainder of his tea. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure that his burning desire to be king will die down by the thought of his bad odds of winning.”

[][][][Leopold][][][]

The portrait that Tybolt Crakehall had promised to paint of him had arrived at the Red Keep. Leopold had ordered the messenger to have men place it in the throne room so that he could descend the steps and look at it in its full glory in a glorious chamber.

It was a large thing; 2 meters tall and a meter wide. There was a large purple silk cloth draped over it with a large letter ‘L’ imprinted on the centre. It required Leopold to tug a tassel to have the cloth fall off to reveal the portrait, but the Prince first sat on the steps in front of the Iron Throne looking at the covered canvas.

His first portrait – it was a monumental moment. This was his legacy. This was how he would be remembered, at least in his youth. This was how his descendants and people, friends and enemies, apprentices and critics would view him. This is what would remain of him when he was gone.

The silk curtain fell.

The Prince of the Seven Kingdoms was sitting down and his twisted, deformed legs were tucked into the darkness. There was no reason to remind anyone that he was infirm, but there was the undeniable outline of an unnaturally twisted bone there. No need to hide from the people the trauma of his life.

The perfectly translated features of the face were an uncanny resemblance of their owner. Tybolt Crakehall certainly had an amazing memory for faces.

The eyes were emeralds. Although there was no crown upon his head, his blonde curls, shavings of a block of gold, made it seem like there was. He wore a crimson doublet with gold trimmings. There was a book tucked into the crook of his arm and a compass with a quill feather balanced in the other hand.

He sat upon a throne of books in a manner befitting a king. In the distance on the left, waves beat against the form of Casterly Rock. On the right, a blizzard blew against Winterfell. 

It was a magnificent representation, Leopold thought, sitting on the steps before the Iron Throne.

“Admiring yourself again?” A voice, which was the last that Leopold wanted to hear, interrupted the viewing of the masterpiece. “Does your pride and vanity have no boundaries?”

“Joffrey, I would rather be vain and arrogant than cruel and stupid,” Leopold responded, not taking his eyes off the portrait. “Embalming the bedsheets with poison? Really? That’s beneath even you.” Leopold smirked. “I thought it was a mutual agreement that we were to settle our differences upon a bloody battlefield.”

Joffrey huffed and, surprisingly, sat down on the same step that Leopold sat on, but not without leaving a significant amount of space between them. The two brothers looked at the portrait, one with admiration and the other with envy. “I thought I’d spare myself the effort of warring with you. Believe it or not, I have ambitions other than sibling rivalry when I become king?”

“Oh really? Such as? Share them with me. Either I won’t be alive to see them come to fruition or I will not allow them to occur.”

Joffrey regarded him for a moment before puffing his chest and declaring. “The North. I want to be the first king who conquered the North.”

“Why not Dorne? It’s closer, warmer and smaller. Not to mention more manageable, though not by much. Dorne has never been conquered either.”

“The Northerners think they’re our equals. It’s only a matter of time until they rebel demanding their independence—”

“With you as king, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Leopold said and then turned to a servant standing at the post. “My good man! Bring us some wine! I will be hearing too much stupidity to be completely sober for this.” The serving man sped off. “Have you thought about what the history books will call our war?”

“I hope not something as stupid as the Dance of Brothers or Lions or Stags. The Dance of Dragons was such a stupid name for a war that wiped out the most fearsome beasts that ever roamed the world.”

“No dancing then. Brothers’ War? King War? The Cripple and Idiot War? ‘War’ just doesn’t roll of the tongue, but if you called it the Brother’s Waltz, then maybe.”

“Shut up,” Joffrey glared at his brother. The servant brought them their wine.

“Have you thought about our first battle against one another?” Leopold asked, after sipping the Dornish red.

“Extensively.”

“Funny. I haven’t.”

Joffrey spread his hands in front of him as if envisioning it. “It will be either in the Reach or the Riverlands—”

“They always are,” Leopold said, with a roll of his eyes.

“My army will crush yours easily. I will lead them on the battlefield and I suppose you will choose to command your forces from some tent, like a coward.”

“Like someone with half a brain would, you mean?” Leopold slapped the deformed legs. “Remember these presents? The battlefield is not the theatre of war for them.”

“Whatever,” Joffrey shrugged with indifference, returning to his fantasy of a glorious war. “Your forces will perish and then my soldiers will drag you to the capital – literally drag you by tying you to a horse and forcing you to roll on the dust for several miles- where you will be hung, drawn and quartered. I will personally make sure that you die a traitor’s death, brother. Taking up arms against the Crown is high treason, after all.”

Leopold swallowed the wine and tasted its full bitterness. That was no way to go. “That is assuming that you can beat me, oh great warrior. If I prevail, I can assure you that your death will be something to do with horses.” He poured his older brother more wine from the container and then proceeded to pour some into his own goblet. This was certainly a strange way to pass the time. “Also can we agree ahead of time about the banners. Golden lion on a crimson field is mine. I don’t want none of this Lannister-Baratheon nonsense to confuse the troops. Have whatever banner you want but for both our sakes don’t put a lion on yours. Or any kind of cat for that matter. And for the love of the Warrior, don’t you dare replicate my colours.”

“Agreed,” Joffrey nodded. It seemed that thought had already occurred to him.

“What about Myrcella and Tommen? Mother and Uncle Jaime?”

“You can have Myrcella – she’s always loved you more. I’ll have Tommen. The sop needs to learn what it is to be a man.”

Leopold shrugged. “Fair enough. You can have the little boring one. You’re the one that also needs a male heir. Any girl that is mad enough to marry you will commit suicide before she allows your spawn to leave her womb.”

“Sansa Stark seems ‘mad’ enough. She’s eating right out of my hand.”

Another taste of foul bile. There must have been something wrong with the wine. Just to be certain, Leopold discreetly bit down on his bezoar capsule. He was not going to leave himself exposed to chance. “She won’t. And if she does, you better consider how you treat her. If you do wed her and you treat her with enough kindness, I will consider that when I destroy you and send you to your death.”

Joffrey threw back his head in laughter. “You think I care for your promises? They mean less than nothing to me. I’ll treat her as I like because she’ll be my wife and she’ll do as I say.”

“Well, remember my words when you start losing the war.” There was nothing more that Leopold could do about Sansa.

“What of your beloved wife? Won’t she fall to her death before she allow you to impregnate her?” Joffrey said that somewhat bitterly and Leopold noticed that. Could it possibly be that his big brother was jealous of him even in that area?

“Oh poor, little Joffrey? You know, even if you subject me to the worst possible form of execution or torture and however badly I could lose our war, I will always have one ace over you. I will know love. Not only her warmth in her bed, but I will also know her heart, her smile, her laughter, the way that she blushes whenever I perform some foolery. I will know her mind and her manner. Whereas you, sad, lowly, ugly little creature that you are, however much you try and for however long you live, you will never have what I have. That, I think, is almost worth dying for.”

“Good, because you will,” Joffrey spat, practically boiling with rage.

“You haven’t answered about Mother and Uncle Jaime?” Their manner was that of a couple divorcing, rather than bitter rivals.

“You can have our uncles. You get along with them better, but Mother is mine. Mother has always been mine.” Perhaps their mother was Joffrey’s substitute for the love that both boys knew he would never possess.

Leopold sighed. There was nothing a mother loved more than a firstborn. “Fair enough.” He swung some of his wine. “What would you do if you win our glorious yet nameless war? Aside from your stupid idea of a campaign against the North and possibly Dorne.”

“Build a Royal Army. A standing professional royal army, like the ones in the East, not a mob of peasants who had never help pikes in their lives. No more of this nonsense where each lord commands his own army,” Joffrey said and drunk.

“That’s… actually not a bad idea – a model army. As a future lord, I have to disagree with you, but as a future king, I admire it. It seems you’re not as full of idiocy as I originally thought. What else do you have?”

Joffrey turned sharply, hatred flaring in his eyes. “You will never be king!”

Leopold shrugged. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. Either way, we’ll both live to see it.” Leopold swallowed the last of his wine. “The moment the King dies I will have to flee the capital and the next time that we’ll see each other is my war tent where one of us will be in chains.”

Joffrey seemed to find a certain glee in that thought. “It won’t be long now.”

A door suddenly slammed open and the portly frame of their father hunkered through the throne room. He stopped when he saw his two eldest sons staring at him, shocked that they would willingly reside in such proximity with each other without guards tearing them apart from a fight.

“Father? How may we assist you?” Leopold grinned and pointed to Joffrey’s goblet. “Wine?”

Robert took it from Joffrey, who glared at Leopold. “I’m going hunting with Renly and some other boys. I won’t be back for a fortnight.”

Joffrey and Leopold looked at one another with the same thought in their minds. Joffrey was the one who spoke. “But who will you leave as Hand of the King? Lord Stark is—“

“Still in Lannister hands, yes,” Robert said, pointedly glaring at Leopold, who merely indignantly huffed his chest. “Until he returns to the capital, the regent of the city will be your mother. Loath as am I to say it, there’s no one left in this entire stink hole that I can leave my castle to.”

Leopold smirked. “Dark times indeed.” Customarily, in a situation such as Robert’s, the lord would leave his eldest son in charge of the stronghold, like Lord Stark did with Robb. It seems that Robert didn’t trust Joffrey to be his heir yet. “Good hunting, your grace.”

As the King walked from them, the two princes had no idea that they would never see him walk again.


End file.
